


Hotspur and Steelsheen

by MedeaSmyke



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comedy, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:52:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 208,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5419484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MedeaSmyke/pseuds/MedeaSmyke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A holiday in Lossarnach takes a turn for the worst for Prince Thengel and his companions, who must rely upon the hospitality of the young mistress of Imloth Melui. But even under the blossoming trees of that fabled valley, life takes a turn from the idyllic. Where greedy relatives fail, Morwen and Thengel discover strength in friendship and perhaps something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death in the Family

March 2942

The messenger rode full tilt up the grass-carpeted road, his horse lathered and snorting. It was the herald out of Arnach, on an errand of grave importance. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion, he raced northward, sweat pouring down his face, soaking his clothes and hair. He changed mounts at a farm along the South Road to lend him speed before he plunged into the fabled valley of Imloth Melui.

He would not rest until his message had been carried from one end of the fief to the other. There were precious few settlements in Lossarnach, separated by many hedges, but he had seen each one before the day had ended - clattering over cobbled squares, standing on fountains, crying from the steps of their weathered houses. Now it promised to be day again. The sun had not yet touched the valley floor though the sky had turned to gray in the east. The deadly east.

The messenger leaned into the last leg of his journey. He kicked the gelding's sides and loosed the reins, giving the horse its head. The hollow tattoo of hooves on the loam kept his heart going. He would not fall out of the saddle from exhaustion or for any other reason. He would deliver his message.

An ancient stone pile under a thatch roof appeared beneath the colossal silver-green trees at the end of the greenway. Bar-en-Ferin, at last. Dogs raced out to meet the rider. The horse reared in nervous energy. He halloo'd and hollered until one-by-one faces appeared at the leaded windows, on the threshold, in the yard. He found the silver-eyed girl with the blue-black hair framed by her household beneath the arched lintel, the daughter of kings over the sea and the lords of flowering vales. The mistress of Imloth Melui, Hirwen's daughter.

"Hardang has fallen," he cried between gasps. "The Lord of Lossarnach is dead!"

###

Thanks to Lialathuveril and Gythja for supplying feedback! For those of you worried about starting a story that is still "in progress" - I have already finished the complete rough draft. No fear! Thanks for reading.


	2. Wanderlust and Rainstorms

"Where the blood of a husband silences wars for the girl who arises to meet him." John Mark McMillan

April 2942

Five riders stopped along the South Road that spilled out into the wide vale of Lossarnach in order to observe a curiosity, a road that split off from the beaten track. It disappeared into a shield of trees before the mouth of a valley tucked into the nape of the White Mountains. The arm of snowy peaks stretching east, ending in the pile of Mindoluin chiseled out by ancient masons to form Minas Tirith. The other arm tumbled south toward the Anduin.

Before them, under soaring beech trees, ran the greenway, a carpeted road of moss, flowers, and short grasses. It was not, of course, the Greenway which eventually connected to the Great West Road and fallen into disrepair. But then, roads had a way of sharing names.

One rider split off from his companions to ride a few paces down the lane. He stopped and removed his winged helm which had grown uncomfortably warm under the scrutiny of the rising sun, revealing startled, golden hair, cropped in the fashion of men who served Ecthelion, He'd banished the cloak of Ithilien green to his saddle bag just after they passed through the Rammas Echor and soon regretted the leather hauberk over his wool tunic, as well.

The shadowy forest looked inviting and cool. He felt something like wanderlust come over him. A novelty after the regimented lifestyle of one who ranged the eastern borders.

"Gladhon." The rider with the madcap hair gestured for another to trot up beside him along the narrow road. Gladhon guided the party as the one native of that fief and who stood out from his companions by his characteristic dark hair and eyes.

"Yes, my lord Thengel?"

"I have half a mind to see what lies that way," said Thengel. "How far would it take us out of our course to Garth Arnach?"

"The road runs west before it curves north into the crook between the mountain ranges. It ends in the valley of Imloth Melui. It leads directly out of our way, but it is worth seeing. The valley is the jewel of Lossarnach, or so we say. It's trees alone—"

"We have seen many trees, young Gladhon," the rider known as Cenhelm, said dryly. His braided gray and gold beard seemed to twitch with disapproval.

"Not these trees," Gladhon, replied confidently. "We've arrived at the best time of year. Lossemeren. The festival of blossoms."

At the back, another rider grunted. Guthere was a deep-chested, stocky man with red-gold hair that flowed from his face and head to cover him like a second armor. "Blossoms are all very well, but what about the hunting? We didn't come to pick flowers - or is that all the men do in this fief?"

Gladhon's face reddened as he scowled at the ribbing. He started to retort.

"Peace," said Lord Thengel, raising a placating hand. "I promised some sport, but let us not forget the first reason for our coming."

Guthere muttered into his beard.

Gladhon cleared his throat. "To answer our worthy Guthere's question, the deer are more plentiful than the farmers would like and the valley is full of other game. Foxes, pheasants, and rabbits. Once in a while the boars will come down from the mountain in the winter. We may still catch one yet."

"I wouldn't mind taking down a boar," said the last rider, Thurstan. He most resembled his master, though he chose to shave his beard and his scalp completely rather than cut it in the manner of the men of Gondor. Curious, twisted animals were inscribed in faded black ink on either side of his neck. He led the packhorse with their gear.

Lord Thengel shook his head. "I wouldn't attempt a boar unless we were twice as many as we are."

"I advise we keep to the South Road and arrive as speedily as may be at Lord Hardang's hall. We can hunt deer as often as we choose in Ithilien, my prince," Cenhelm pointed out.

He peered suspiciously into the valley. He did not like forests, as a rule, and a forest hedged in by high hills - the worst. They made it difficult to fulfill his oath as leader of the prince's honor guard to keep Rohan's heir alive and intact. A hunting expedition into unknown territory had not been his idea of a relaxing leave after ranging through orc-riddled Ithilien. That region was a nightmare, Lossarnach an irritation.

"Besides, the inhabitants may not know your name," he muttered darkly. "Can they be trusted?"

The prince stared upward as if he had seen a bizarre bird fly past. "This is Gondor, not Harad. Besides, there cannot be many inhabitants here," Thengel observed with amusement. "They certainly don't use the road."

"Very few live in that valley, my lord, though the road is used often enough by carts going back and forth with goods to Arnach and Minas Tirith. They green the road on purpose. There is a scattering of small settlements along the streams, mostly family-sized herb farms and bee yards. There is one large plantation renowned for its orchards. It is retained by Lady Morwen, daughter of Lord Randir. He was kin to Prince Angelemir of Dol Amroth."

"I know the prince's son," replied Thengel. "Adrahil lives in Minas Tirith for the time, does he not?"

Gladhon nodded. "I have heard that Prince Adrahil is coming with his new bride for the feast hosted in the great house, Bar-en-Ferin."

"Is that place nearby?" asked Cenhelm.

"It is a retired plantation deep in the valley between the streams that tribute the Erui."

"Who is this Lady Morwen?" asked Thengel. "Her name sounds familiar."

"She was Lord Hardang's cousin, somewhat removed on her mother's side. They share their great grandfather, Lord Halgemir. Hardang is the grandson of Halgemir's heir, Lord Hathol; the Lady Morwen descends from Halgemir's second son, Hador."

"It's about as comprehensible as any Rohirric genealogy," Thengel replied dryly. "Is she a free landholder?"

"No, she paid rents to Lord Hardang for the land."

"So we would not be trespassing if we journeyed into the valley?" asked Cenhelm doubtfully.

"No."

Thengel patted his mount's neck. "How much longer to Hardang's hall, Gladhon?"

"Another day's ride, lord."

"And the deer are considered a nuisance, you say?"

"Oh, yes. There is an expression in these parts that the deer are to Lossarnach as the orcs are to Ithilien." Gladhon frowned. "Of course, the refugees who came here from Ithilien don't find it amusing."

The comparison was tasteless, but to a farmer whose livelihood fell under constant threat of consumption it probably seemed apt. Lord Thengel considered for a moment a way to serve all the interests within the company. In the end, he had to sacrifice Cenhelm's.

"Gentlemen. What if we took a detour to lend a hand against this domestic strife?" he asked with a barely concealed grin. "We could make a gift of a haunch of venison to our host. A house in mourning might remember us better if we bring something to spread on their table."

All but Cenhelm answered agreeably.

"Then let us hunt." He reached widely to clap Cenhelm on the shoulder. "Relax, my friend. What could possibly happen?"

Cenhelm winced. He glanced grudgingly at the serene sky and light clouds scudding across it like swans on a pond. "It's an easterly wind."

Thengel laughed. "It's always an easterly wind to you. Gladhon, lead on."

...

Evening spread its cloak early over the valley. In a long, leaning house in the woods, a hearth fire danced shadows around the kitchen like a puppet master. When the kettle whistled on the hob, it took a moment for the two women seated at the table to notice it wasn't the sound of wind shrilling beneath the eaves. The housekeeper, iron-haired and slim as a gimlet, rose to pour boiling water into an old clay teapot for steeping. Fragrant, mint-scented steam issued from the spout to mingle in the kitchen with the smell of flour and rain.

"I'll tell you what," said the housekeeper to her friend, the cook, as she sat down again, "it's very glad I am to sit in doors at the kitchen table right about now. This house is groaning and shaking enough for these old bones of mine. Storm came up quickly tonight."

The fire sizzled in agreement as raindrops dribbled down the chimney.

"I pity any folk on the road and river without warning. The weather's that changeable." The cook puffed a frizzled strand of muddy hair away from her face that had slipped from its thick plait. "It caught my boy Gundor out in the back acres. He said a number of branches were already down."

"It's an ill wind that comes from the east," her friend replied sagely.

The housekeeper poured out the tea for them both. The warmth seeping from their mugs into their fingers, comfort in the wet spring night. The wind moaned between the house and the outbuildings, carrying with it the sound of the trees raking their branches together.

"I love a good spring storm, though. Nothing says winter's finally gone to bed like a spat of lightning and thunder." The cook tested the tea with her small finger, then shook off the few drops clinging to her skin. "We need the rain. Should help the buds along."

The housekeeper nodded. "Puts green back in the valley." Then her expression pinched. "The lady's not best pleased about her trees though."

The cook and the housekeeper shared a knowing glance.

"As if Lady Morwen could change the weather, though she's used enough to getting her way around here." The cook shrugged. "Anyway, let's hope that the wind leaves a few blossoms up for the festival. She's set on everything going beautifully."

"It's fitting if it doesn't - and I'm just saying," The housekeeper muttered with a sharp look out the south window. "What with Halmir and his brother coming up from Arnach when they ought to stay put. If Lord Hardang's widow won't come, I don't see why his brothers should. It'll be that cheerless."

The cook harrumphed her agreement then sipped her tea. "We could do with more cheer after the year we've had. First Lord Randir, then Lord Hardang. Why did Hardang want to go to Ithilien himself? He might have sent his brothers." She shuddered at evil memories.

The housekeeper grunted. "They may yet. Captain Ecthelion's that set on building his army."

"Some days I'd give my right arm to see those woods again - but it's a lesson to anyone who's thinking of leaving Lossarnach where it's sensible and safe."

Both the women jumped when thunder cracked over the house, sendings its echoes deep into the valley. They listened to its fading rumble like the sound of a dragon falling to sleep.

"Safe enough," said the housekeeper, then she gave the cook a shrewd look. "Did you do as I asked this morning?"

"See for yourself." The cook nudged her chin toward the fire hissing in the hearth.

The housekeeper squinted. "I don't see anything but fire and ashes."

The cook gave her a satisfied smile. "Well, then I was thorough, wasn't I?" she said. "Didn't you tell the lady that her black handkerchief fell in the fire?"

"I did." The housekeeper nodded conspiratorially. "I didn't tell her which fire."

The cook poured out the last of the tea, then asked, "What else did you tell her?"

"What? When she asked about the dress we dyed last summer for Lord Randir funeral?" The housekeeper sniffed. "Well, she caught it in the wagon wheel last harvest, didn't she? Ruined a whole panel. I cut up the rest for quilting."

"Her stockings we dyed with the dress?"

"Run through with holes after she went for blackberries."

The cook clucked her tongue. "I keep telling her to send Ioneth for a change. That girl could use a long walk - up hill both ways if possible," she muttered. "What else?"

"Oh, she wanted to know about that scarf Lord Randir brought her from Minas Tirith back when Lady Hirwen passed. I felt too badly about that one to hurt it, so I sent it down to old Midhel for dying. It was looking rusty after so many washes." She frowned. "Midhel probably won't have it back before summer's out, she's that slow these days."

"Is there anything left for mourning we haven't thought of?" asked cook. She tried to picture the contents of the linen cupboards.

"Naught but her own black hair."

The cook nodded in satisfaction. "It's been too long, as I said. Was Lady Morwen upset?"

The housekeeper blinked. "Upset? No, but I think she's on to us. Was sort of snippy about it only being a month since Lord Hardang fell."

The cook straightened up in her chair like she was ready to spring. "Well a month is all the folk down in Arnach gave before they put their weeds away back when our master passed - and he was Hardang's uncle by marriage. That's what your sister down at the garth told us."

"And so I told Lady Morwen," said the housekeeper, worry lines webbing her face. "But she said Randir wasn't the Lord of Lossarnach.

The cook brooded over her tea. "Well, and there's the question. Who is the Lord of Lossarnach?"

They fell into uncertain silence. Outside, the clouds hung their head over the valley walls, listening to the wind blow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Lia and Gythja for feedback! And thank you for leaving a review.
> 
> Characters:
> 
> Adrahil: Son of Angelemir, Prince of Dol Amroth, Morwen's distant cousin
> 
> Angelemir: Ruling prince of Dol Amroth, a relative of Morwen's
> 
> Cenhelm: An overcareful Rohirric soldier, the captain of Thengel's honor guard.
> 
> Ecthelion: Captain of the Steward's armies, son of Steward Turgon
> 
> Gildis: Morwen's housekeeper
> 
> Gladhon: Gondorian soldier and guide, native to Lossarnach
> 
> Gundor: Morwen's farmhand, son of Hareth the cook, the scapegoat
> 
> Guthere: A Rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard
> 
> Hador: Morwen's grandfather, the useless brother of Hathol, son of Halgemir
> 
> Halgemir: Morwen's ancestor, an earlier Lord of Lossarnach
> 
> Halmir: Lord Hardang's useless brother
> 
> Hardang: Recently deceased lord of Lossarnach
> 
> Hareth: Morwen's cook
> 
> Hundor: Lord Hardang's other useless brother
> 
> Hathol: Lord of Lossarnach, son of Halgemir, grandfather of Hardang
> 
> Ioneth: Morwen's plump maidservant
> 
> Morwen: Heroine. The mistress of an orchard in Imloth Melui
> 
> Thengel: Hero. Banished prince of Rohan
> 
> Thurstan: A rohirric soldier, member of Thengel's Honor Guard


	3. Wind-Throwed

The storm descended upon Thengel and his men in a blink. When securing a tent or any kind of shelter proved fruitless, the riders were forced to return eastward toward the greenway, with the cold wind in their faces. They had already traveled deep into the wooded valley before the storm suddenly kicked up, stirring up the canopy of new spring leaves. Sheets of rain began to fall so hard it hurt when the drops fell on exposed skin. Gladhon suggested in a series of shouts that they find one of the two streams rather than the road, as the folk of Imloth Melui were more likely to live on the water.

He had been right. Despite the noise of the storm, they heard the stream tumbling down from the valley wall shortly before they saw the first light of a homestead. A hermitage, from the look of the squat, hive-shaped stone cottage built agains the bank.

Gladhon banged on the wooden door and a head popped out after a short wait. It was a raggedy, salt-and-peppery head with eyes set back deep into the skull. The eyes surveyed the group with some surprise, lingering on Thengel before the hermit finally took note of the weather condition. A goat's head appeared through the door and bleated at them.

"Caught in the storm, eh?" His voice cracked. "Not a nice one to be out in, either."

"We would be much obliged if you'd share your shelter," Gladhon spoke for the group.

"If you don't mind the goats," the hermit replied.

They were relieved to find any shelter at all, even if it meant bunking with the hermit and his goats.

He sniffed, then told them where they could find a lean-to in a stand of trees behind the hut for their horses to shelter. They stabled the horses, took their belongings, then made their way back to the hut. Once inside, they hunched under the domed ceiling and dripped on the family of goats piled inside. The stink of them made Thengel's eyes water, which was a blessing in disguise as it blurred his vision. Their host, they discovered, was a nudist. An interesting fact that had been hidden by the door.

Thengel and his men spent the night packed into the hermitage, despite his misgivings. The space would have been confining for one man, let alone six. Also, Teitharion, as the man was called, made Thengel uncomfortable. When Thengel introduced himself, the man said he already knew who he was. Then there was the fact that Teitharion was an artist, the sort with those half-baked, idiosyncratic eyes that moved as if they were seeing two worlds overlapped against one another. He kept staring off at things that Thengel couldn't see.

Then there were the questions. For instance, "Aren't you expected in Minas Tirith this time of year?" Teitherion had given him a very knowing look.

Thengel's men stiffened around him at the mention of Mundburg. Even the goats seemed aware that their master was treading into forbidden pastures.

Thengel's expression hardened.

Teitharion went on, undisturbed by what he saw. "Just how old are you now?"

"Older," Thengel replied, voice hard as nails.

Teitharion nodded sagely. "I remember when you first rode into the city," he mused. "A moving spectacle, completely pathetic. I painted your picture, a boy with hair grown half-way down his back like a girl's, riding a horse most Gondorian men couldn't handle. The stuff histories are made of." His hand wavered in the air. "I titled it, The Wayward Son in Exile. I tried selling it with all my other paintings when I retired from public life. Nobody wanted it. Had to donate the thing to the Archives - much to the amusement of my rivals." He spat.

Thengel grinned dangerously, a telltale sign that he had reached the end of his patience. The expression had caused better men than Teitharion to soil themselves, but the artist missed it completely when he bent down to nuzzle one of his goats. Thengel had to hand it to Teitharion. He had a knack for knowing exactly how to make a group of Rohirric warriors extremely ill-at-ease. Thengel's presence in Gondor, though far from classified information, remained a taboo subject among the revolving door of Rohirric body guards sent to Gondor over the years. The atmosphere in the hermitage felt taut as a bowstring and the past was a poisoned dart. Pluck at the string and someone was bound to get hurt.

Moreover, it unsettled Thengel to discover that deep in the wooded valley of Imloth Melui, a place he had never been, a perfect stranger had memories of the day which had seemed like a threshold to Thengel. Not even Cenhelm could claim as much. The men his uncle had sent with that boy - Thengel had a difficult time thinking of himself as that youthful heir of Fengel King - had long since returned to Rohan. It seemed anymore that only Thengel's foster father and brother ever recollected Thengel before he had decided he needed to cut his hair in the same style as Ecthelion's and wear the same clothes. He felt more comfortable in the foil of Ecthelion's lieutenant than in the skin of the prince of Rohan.

Thengel forced the muscles in his face to relax as he willed his temper to recede. In twenty years he had learned something about containing it, but it had always been swift and strong like the storm that had caught them that evening.

The conversation died out with the mention of Minas Tirith and his men were pulling their cloaks over their shoulders to sleep slumped against the curved walls of the hut. Thengel unrolled his own cloak and pulled the hood over his head, but sleep did not come right away. The goats were fidgety and Teitherion mumbled the names of his rivals in his sleep. At least, Thengel thought they were the rivals. They might have been the names of his goats.

They rose before dawn to discover that the horses were missing and the rickety lean-to where they had been stabled utterly collapsed under the storm.

"Well?" said Cenhelm over the sound of the wind. It hadn't died down, even if the rain stopped and the clouds dispersed. It reminded Thengel of Cenhelm's warning from the day before.

"Teach me to follow a whim," Thengel replied bitterly. They ought to have ridden straight to Garth Arnach. "Grab your gear, gentlemen. We're hunting horses this morning."

Thengel put Thurstan and Guthere in the lead, as their tracking skills were superior. After the initial confusion old and new tracks along the bank, Guthere picked out that the freshest trail of hooves in the soft earth led south. Eventually it left the river bank, for the woods. They followed this for several miles when the trail showed signs that at least one of the horses had veered away from the others, Guthere went on his own to see if it was a dud trail or not.

While they waited for him to return, Thengel crouched with his back against a tree trunk and took the opportunity to pass around one of their water skins. He murmured his thanks that they had their saddlebags, even if it meant carrying them as the heat of the day increased with the rising sun. The other blessing was the strong wind that blew coolly out of the east, the forest full with the sound of its rushing and the bony creaking of limbs. Thengel could feel the tree rocking against his back as it rocked the canopy above, scattering the light that filtered down through the waving leaves. He watched the patterns change on the forest floor, mesmerized until Cenhelm interrupted his revery after the water had gone around several times and they had eaten a mouthful of bread.

"Guthere ought to be back by now to report," Cenhelm pointed out impatiently "It's nearly noon. Béma only knows how far the horses have gone by now."

Cenhelm spoke correctly, as always. A feeling of unease settled over their band. They waited for the prince to command them. Reluctant to split the group any more, he decided they all would follow the trail in the direction Guthere had gone in hopes that they might meet him coming back.

They fanned out beneath the trees wherever the heavy undergrowth would allow, though keeping one another within the line of sight in case Guthere or any of the horses should show themselves. Thengel's unease turned to dread when they had walked nearly a mile. Guthere shouldn't have come this far.

"Prince Thengel - over here!" he heard Thurstan cry. Gladhon and Cenhelm rushed with Thengel toward their companion's voice.

Thurstan kneeled beside a fallen tree near the roots, which hung in dirty tangles. The dirt around it looked loose and recently disturbed. Around them, the other trees, all tall and wide with age, leaned ominously in the wind. Below Thurstan, Guthere lay unconscious and in a bad state, half obscured by branches which had trapped him beneath the trunk of the old beech tree.

"I can't get him out," Thurstan told him. "Help me lift the tree away."

It took some doing to lift the branches enough to pull Guthere out from under them. The branches that had trapped him had also saved his life, keeping the full weight of the trunk from crushing him, skull, neck, and spine. They tried waking Guthere, but then they discovered something that made all of their hearts sink into their guts. Barely visible through Guthere's thick, red hair, a gash arced just above his left ear, revealing cracked bone. The branch had broken his skull.

Although bloody, the wound seemed to have congealed. Odd, as head wounds bled profusely. Guthere's face looked swollen and deathly gray. There were cuts on his face and neck, but the leather hauberk had protected his chest from scrapes.

"Do we have anything to bind the wound?" Thurstan asked.

"Nothing but dirty clothes."

"Binding won't be much help for a cracked skull that's not bleeding," said Cenhelm, even as he cut a sleeve from the spare tunic in his saddlebag. "He needs a healer."

"We shouldn't move him like this."

"We can't leave him here," Thengel pointed out. "It'll take twice as long if we find a healer and have to bring him back. If our ill-luck holds, we'd most likely get lost trying to find our way here again."

"How will we carry him?" Thurstan asked. "Guthere's not exactly a bucket of oats."

Cenhelm frowned deeply. "And where is there to go? Back to the hermit's hut? The bad air would kill him if the head wound did not."

"No," said Thengel. "Gladhon, you're our guide. What do you say?"

Gladhon considered a moment, looking for all the world that he wished someone else had been guide. "If we make a litter, we can carry him to Bar-en-Ferin," he said eventually. "It is the closest settlement, I deem."

So, they assembled a makeshift litter for Guthere out of sturdy, young branches run through several tunics to hold them together and bear the man's weight. Like slaves carrying a Harad king through the marketplaces, or pallbearers, they carried Guthere's litter out of the woods toward the greenway. Picking out a path through the bracken proved difficult and Guthere was not a lightweight, but he made no sound and they were too worried to complain about the difficulty.

Their spirits rose a mite when at last they saw a stone wall through the trees, heralding a settlement. Over the top of the wall, they saw clouds of white and pink. The crowns of fruit trees in blossom.

Gladhon seemed doubly encouraged by the sight. "We've reached the orchard. Good. The house isn't far."

"Whose house?" Thengel asked.

"Lady Morwen's."

Thengel had a sudden misgiving. Would a lady help a group of foreign soldiers? Would she appreciate them carrying a bloodied man into her home? Gondorian women were not especially sturdy, he thought. At least, not the ones he knew in Minas Tirith. But then, what choice did they have? Guthere would die without aid.

They followed the road under a colonnade of beech trees before Gladhon led them down a narrower path that parted an arbor of birches. They were all relieved when they saw the eaves of a house peeking out through the canopy of leaves.

The woodlot ended in a grassy yard. They were near the house and beyond it were several outbuildings, a barn and smaller sheds. A host of mottled dogs raced toward them, making a racket. Thengel and Gladhon had to kick them back.

A plump, dark-haired girl appeared around the opposite corner of the house carrying a large basket of garden stuff. She yelled at the dogs to quit yawping at squirrels before she saw the strangers who had attracted them. The basket dropped when she saw their gory cargo. Bundles of greens spilled out at her feet. The color bled from her cheeks and her eyes were large with panic. She looked like she might scream.

"Peace, we are friends," said Gladhon hurriedly. "Our companion is injured. We need a healer."

The girl seemed at a loss for words, simply gaped at the straw-haired men. The dogs were silent but tense, feeding on her paralysis.

"What is your name?" Thengel asked with exaggerated calm. He admitted they were probably a fright to look at, between their foreign looks and the mess Guthere was in. When working with frightened new recruits in Ithilien, he discovered it helped to communicate with them if they started with something familiar, facts they knew by rote such as their names.

"Ioneth," she said automatically.

"Ioneth," he continued, "We need to tend this man's wounds. Can you take us inside?"

The sound of her name, though strange on his tongue, seemed to pull her out of her stupor somewhat. The girl nodded dumbly, even if she couldn't manage words. After picking up her basket, she led them in through large arched doors into a hall. It was a spacious, long room built from heavy beams and plaster that had been patched over and painted many times. Thengel could see a stair that led up into the second story, a wider door that led, perhaps, to the kitchens, and a hearth behind scattered furniture.

A stately old woman met them there, attracted by the sound of the door. She carried a bundle of rich fabric in her arms, half lifted as if to display it. Thengel could tell from her expression that she expected someone else, but after she took one look at the men, their litter, and the pale Ioneth, she rearranged her expectations and seemed to understand what to do. Thengel muttered a prayer of thanks to Béma for at least one level head in the place.

"I'm sorry - I found them in the yard and —" Ioneth stammered as the iron-haired woman pulled her out of the way of the litter so that the men could get in through the doors.

The old woman ignored her and spoke directly to Thengel and his men. "Set him over there," she said, directing them to a long, heavy wooden table. She cleared off candles, a jug of flowers, as well as the embroidered runner that they rested on, to make room for Guthere's body.

They laid the bloodied Guthere on the table and carefully withdrew the litter from under him. Cenhelm helped Thurstan disassemble the branches from their tunics.

"What happened here?" the old woman asked. "A hunting accident?"

Gladhon answered, "We were caught in the storm last night. This morning we found our companion struck down by a fallen tree in the northern end of the valley."

"Wind-throwed," the old woman muttered knowingly. "It's solid wood that way. Too many old trees." Then she addressed the girl. "Gundor's in the kitchen finishing his lunch. Tell him to fetch Nanneth immediately. Ask Hareth for something to use for bandages."

Ioneth seemed happy for an excuse to leave the room. She disappeared in a trice through the passage beside the hearth.

"Nanneth is our healer," the woman explained. "She trained under the masters in the House of Healing years ago. She may know what to do."

"Thank you," said Thengel. He took her hand and bowed over it. "I am Lord Thengel and these are my men, Gladhon, Cenhelm, and Thurstan. This injured man is Guthere. You must be Lady Morwen."

The old woman blinked, then turned beet red. "Goodness gracious," she said.

Thengel shot a glance at Gladhon, then back at the woman. "I was told this is Lady Morwen's dwelling."

"It is." Even the woman's ears were bright with color. "Forgive me - that is - I am not Lady Morwen, but her servant, Gildis. My lady is not here."

It was Thengel's turn to blink stupidly. She took back her hand. Not Lady Morwen? He had been betrayed by his own expectations and her self-possession and easy command. It was a simple mistake, but the woman's obvious distress and embarrassment at being mistaken for her mistress was palpable.

"Will she arrive soon?" Gladhon asked. "I'm afraid we are trespassing on her hospitality."

Gildis nodded stiffly, her color still high. "I expected her back for the noon meal. She is in the orchard with our overseer."

So they had likely passed Lady Morwen on their way to the house. Thengel preferred that she had been here to invite them in herself. The lady would receive an unpleasant surprise. Still, he thought, she could hardly refuse to help.

A gawking boy of perhaps fifteen passed through the hall to have a look at Guthere. Thengel noticed Gildis give him a sharp look. The boy shrugged and ran out the door.

"Who was that?" Thengel asked.

"Gundor," she answered with a waspish tone. "He probably wanted to know how fast he needed to run."

Thengel frowned. "How long will it take to fetch the healer?"

"Nanneth does not live far, but she is old. Excuse me." Gildis left them to draw their own conclusions, disappearing through the same doors the girl had.

The men exchanged grim looks once they were alone. Thengel laid his hand on Guthere's heavy chest. It barely moved. Without a word, Cenhelm helped Thengel loosen the hauberk to ease the restriction on the man's torso.

"What now?" Gladhon asked.

"There's little we can do except make him comfortable and clean him up," Cenhelm told them.

They stood there feeling useless and anxious about their companion. For men used to action, waiting would always be the worst. But one thing could be done, even if it wouldn't benefit Guthere directly.

"We still need to find the horses. Gladhon, Thurstan, you go. Take what bread and water remains. Cenhelm and I will look after Guthere."

They bowed and retreated from the hall, leaving Cenhelm and Thengel alone with the prone body of their friend.

"Marshal Oswin will not be pleased one of his riders fell on a hunting lark," Cenhelm murmured as Thengel inspected the wound beneath the bit of sleeve they'd torn from a tunic.

"My uncle is rarely pleased with anything I do," Thengel replied bitterly. "But he won't be nearly as unforgiving as I will be if Guthere doesn't pull through."

Cenhelm gave him a strange look which Thengel did not see. "Your uncle's one fault is that he is more forgiving than you realize."

Gildis returned then, bringing clean linen when Ioneth did not reappear. Others of the household were starting to gather out of curiosity. Thengel ignored them, concentrating on his man. Cenhelm cut the sheet into strips with his knife. A bowl of water also appeared, which they used to clean up some of the caked mud and grit.

Thengel gently pressed a wet rag into the gash above Guthere's ear where the blood had congealed. The rag came away red and brown from blood and dirt. He dipped the rag in the bowl and the water turned a murky pink. The gash began to bleed sluggishly. Cenhelm pressed a fresh rag over it.

"We'll reopen all the cuts if we keep this up," Cenhelm observed. "He's already white from loss of blood."

"The dirt has to be cleaned away," Thengel countered.

Their discussion was interrupted by the scrape-and-chink of the iron door latch as it rose and fell, followed by the groan of hinges. Gildis turned expectantly toward the sound. The door swung open and a girl appeared under the arch. Tall, and fair, and gray-eyed. There were pink petals caught in the chaos of her windswept hair that lay around her shoulders like a mantle. When her eyes swept the room and met Thengel's, his breath hitched in his throat.

Gildis stepped forward. "Oh, Lady Morwen. Thank goodness you're back!"


	4. Headbroke

A breeze followed the girl through the open door, billowing her skirts and hair out ahead of her. Her boots fell like drum beats over the flagstone floor. The members of the household seemed to bend around her, waiting. She nodded to Gildis by way of greeting as she swept past. Petals drifted to the floor in her wake.

Cenhelm and Thengel exchanged matching looks of surprise. This was the lady of the house? Thengel combed his memory and realized Gladhon had never described the lady of Bar-en-Ferin at all. Thengel merely assumed that a woman who ran her own household would naturally be more advanced in years. A wealthy widow, perhaps, or an old maid with an unfortunate face. This child-woman didn't meet any of those expectations.

A gaunt man shadowed Lady Morwen. He seemed to be made of gristle and deep crags. Thengel wondered briefly if they were father and daughter before dismissing it. Both had blue-black hair (he even sported blossoms too) and wore simple linen garments, not especially clean. Yet, the scarecrow figure deferred to the young woman, at least in posture.

The lady's eyes fixed on Guthere after they scanned the room, wondering perhaps who the strangers were with their straw-colored hair and what had they left on the table? If the sight startled her, she did not show it. Thengel could feel the loss of her attention as a weight falling from his shoulders. Her dress hem brushed Thengel's boots as she passed him by with as much consideration as one might have for a fence post. The scarecrow kept his distance, but Thengel felt the fine hairs on his arms and neck prickle under the other man's scrutiny.

"Stars," she breathed, taking in the gore. "What happened?" Her voice sounded young, but weighted with authority. When the stink of blood and body odor hit her, she pressed the back of her hand against her nose. Her hands were delicate and smooth, but Thengel noticed dirt beneath the nails.

Gildis stepped forward. "Your pardon, Lady Morwen. These men were in sore need of help. I let them in."

Gildis, he noticed, wouldn't quite meet Thengel's eye when she explained their presence to Lady Morwen. Perhaps her nerves still smarted from their earlier misunderstanding. He thought he understood her shock better now.

The lady's scarecrow surveyed the two strangers while Guthere's injuries absorbed Lady Morwen's attention. The man seemed uncertain of which of the strangers deferred to the other so he knew who to address. Cenhelm boasted fifteen more summers than Thengel and bore himself with the proud gravity typical of their people. He dressed like any other man in Riddermark, coarse wool tunic and leather riding trousers and hauberk. Thengel bore the insignia of Captain Ecthelion's men on his hauberk over the fine wool tunic he had received from Turgon in anticipation of his name day. The scarecrow studied the insignia.

"We do not often meet strangers in this valley or those from distant lands," the scarecrow observed, his suspicion of strangers evident in his deep-set eyes. "What purpose brought you to Imloth Melui?"

Thengel felt the cool interest of Lady Morwen's eyes fall on him again. He decided to address her rather than her servant.

"My lady, I led a hunting party deep into the valley yesterday. The wind threw down a rotting tree in our companion's path this morning. He was not fortunate enough to escape its heavy branches."

"Unfortunate fellow," Lady Morwen remarked. She leaned over the prostrated body, examining the bloody head, gently lifting the soaked bandage just above his ear. The inflamed skin distorted Guthere's features and she grimaced.

"He lives?" she asked with wonder.

"Barely, my lady," Thengel told her. "He breathes but we cannot wake him."

Lady Morwen glanced up at Thengel. "I think it would not be a kindness to wake him now, if you could. This wound is swelling badly. Do you see?"

The skin on Guthere's scalp and around the cut exposing the skull looked tight and painful in the patches Thengel could see through his thick hair. His cheek and jaw looked exaggerated and misshapen by the swelling. A deep, purple bruise encircled his eye.

"What is his name?" Lady Morwen asked.

"Guthere," Cenhelm answered.

"Guthere," she said slowly. "A strange name. What has been done for him?" She turned toward the iron-haired housekeeper. "Gildis?"

The old woman stepped forward. "I sent Gundor to fetch Nanneth, my lady."

The scarecrow snorted. The lady gave him a sharp glance with her glacial eyes in what seemed to be a warning. Thengel felt ire swell in his chest like an explosion. He didn't understand the meaning behind the scarecrow's reaction to Gildis's news and he didn't like it. If they could joke while his friend slowly suffocated, they'd have Thengel to reckon with.

"Is something amusing?" he asked with a calm that belied his deteriorating mood. "This woman, Nanneth, she is a healer?"

"Of course," Lady Morwen said. "Ignore Beldir. He was out of humor with Gundor this morning."

The scarecrow, Beldir, did not challenge her explanation but moved a few steps away from the table. His eyes were ever on Thengel and Cenhelm as if waiting for trouble. Thengel didn't thank him for it, but understood how it might be for a household set deep in a valley with only the vigilance of a few to keep order and safety at hand. After all, with his men scattered or injured, Thengel was hardly in a position to vocalize his annoyance.

Lady Morwen glanced down at the dirty water in the bowl beside Cenhelm. "Gildis, bring hot water. Take this bowl away."

"Hareth is boiling a pot now," said Gildis as she took the bowl.

"And Gildis-" Lady Morwen called before the woman disappeared. "Bring something for these men to drink as well."

Cenhelm glanced at Lady Morwen gratefully. Neither Thengel nor his guard had realized their own thirst until that moment. The servant girl, pink-faced Ioneth, appeared again with an earthenware jug of cider and mugs after Gildis disappeared. Thengel thought her hands must be shaking terribly, judging by the amount of liquid sloshing in the jug. When he offered to help her, she squeaked and almost dropped everything. Thengel and Cenhelm got out of her way then and didn't approach the cider until the girl ran off to blush in a corner until Gildis wanted her again.

Thengel nodded to Cenhelm to allow the lady to take their places at Guthere's side while they accepted the offered refreshment. He watched Lady Morwen inspect the other wounds staunched by the cloth. Oblivious to the beautiful woman standing over him, Guthere's deep chest heaved with effort, but only seemed to manage shallow intakes of air and wheezing exhales that suggested little relief.

Touching Guthere's hand, Lady Morwen quickly snatched it away. "He is cold."

She had only to point to a fleece blanket folded over the back of a careworn armchair by the hearth and Ioneth fetched it. She draped it over the rider's legs and torso, then turned to remove Guthere's filthy boots. Thengel stopped her then.

"No," he said, reaching out to grasp her hands before she could so much as untie a lace. "They are dirty and not fit for a lady to touch," he said when she glanced up at him in surprise, then back down at her hands enveloped in his. He jerked his chin at Cenhelm to remove the boots.

Lady Morwen withdrew her hands from his as if they were made of gold and his were covered in bear grease. She stared at him, her brow rising imperiously.

"And who are you?" she finally asked.

"Forgive me." He inclined his head. "I am called Thengel, Prince of Rohan, first lieutenant under Ecthelion. These are my men. Guthere, on the table, and Cenhelm, the leader of my guard."

He waited for the usual reaction whenever he dropped his title on a new acquaintance. The scarecrow took another step back. As for the lady, her eyes widened, though barely.

"Your guard?" She glanced around the room, as if expecting more blond riders to spring out of the shadows.

"My other men, Thurstan and Gladhon, are out seeking our horses who were lost during the storm."

"Forgive me, I am not familiar with Rohan's princes," she said crisply, in a tone that suggested she ought to forgive him for being obscure for an important personage. She mirrored the prince's barest bow. "Be welcome to my home."

"Thank you," he drawled. Thengel couldn't tell if her pride annoyed or amused him. He chalked it up to her relative youth and stress of coming home to discover strangers had converted her hall into a sick room.

"If we're expecting more horses, I best make room in the stable," said the scarecrow.

Lady Morwen nodded with a glance over her shoulder. "Very well, Beldir."

Gildis cleared her throat, having approached them unseen on the way from the kitchen. Lady Morwen moved away from the table to allow the other woman to place a steaming pitcher of water and lay out new cloths draped over her arm on the table near Guthere's side. By now a pool of blood spread out in a crown below Guthere's head like spilled mead. Gildis reached for a cloth, but Cenhelm silently insisted on cleaning his underling's injuries himself and mopping up the mess. Carefully, he washed Guthere's face, beard, and hair, gentle and careful not to further damage the inflamed skin.

###

Guthere's irregular breathing became uncomfortably obvious as they waited for the healer in silence. Gasps for air, prolonged gaps between inhales, made it painful for all of them to breathe, as if their lungs were invisibly linked to the dying man's.

Thengel supplied more strips of cloth for Cenhelm, occasionally murmuring to one another. They were a tight-knit group around the table. That the lady stayed so close surprised Thengel. There was nothing for her to do, after all, until the healer arrived and the sight and stink made even his seasoned stomach queasy. But she stayed, occasionally touching Guthere's hand and murmuring his name. She seemed equal parts autocrat and kind. He caught himself watching her more than once trying to puzzle her out.

"Why do you call his name?" Cenhelm asked her curiously when she did it again. "He will not wake."

"It helps to hear a friendly voice," she replied. "To encourage him to heal. At least, it works on my seedlings."

She didn't see the strange look Cenhelm exchanged with Thengel over her head, distracted suddenly by the baying of the dogs.

###

The dogs announced Nanneth's arrival. The somber atmosphere in the room shifted and Thengel realized how choked he'd felt by anxiety and the wait. The doors opened on a squat old woman seemingly made of flaps and bulges. She carried a heavy bag over one shoulder and her grandson on her hip, the child only five or six. Beldir and the lad Gundor arrived behind her. Nanneth set the boy down, then cleared the area by the table by butting them all away with her wide hips. Without a word to anyone, she peeled the cloths away and inspected the wounds. The accordion-like skin of her lips stretched and contracted as she hummed to herself. Thengel thought she inspected wounds the way other people inspected meat before they paid the butcher's boy.

Nanneth mumbled something, her voice a toothless mash of sounds, but Gildis and Lady Morwen seemed to understand. They went to a tall chest that stood between the windows where heavy silver candleholders rested. They lit them when they returned to the table and placed them near Guthere's head. Nanneth murmured names under her breath and the boy found her the object in the bag, strange tinctures in waxed jars, spools, cloth, anything.

Nanneth surveyed the head, mostly clear of blood, but for a slow seepage from the troubling wound on the side of his head. She opened Guthere's mouth, lifted his tongue, harrumphed, then peeled back his eyelids.

Raising Guthere's hand in the air, Nanneth let it drop with a dull, fleshy bump on the table. Then she went back to his head. Thengel wanted to ask her what on Middle-earth she meant to learn from any of this, but he didn't dare interrupt. With a few indecipherable words to her grandson, the boy retrieved a pair of sheers. Nanneth cut away the thick, matted hair around the wound.

The probing continued, along with a stream of Nanneth's garbled words. Slowly, Thengel began to understand a few of them here and there. Despite Lady Morwen's assertion that he had nothing to fear in terms of Nanneth's skills, he began to doubt again as she probed the skull and sniffed at it. He almost stopped her when she bent her ear down to his skull and started tapping around with her knuckles. She straightened up.

"Headbroke," Nanneth said by way of diagnosis.

"That we knew," said Thengel, barely concealing a growl. "We don't need a healer to tell us-" He felt Cenhelm's arm on his shoulder.

Nanneth shrugged off Thengel's outburst like a fly. "Don't sound right. The swelling's gumming things up."

Suddenly her finger tipped into the open area above Guthere's ear and lifted the skin away from the skull. Lady Morwen, who had remained during the inspection, turned away from the table with a small groan.

"Can anything be done?" Cenhelm asked.

Nanneth held up a finger, then mumbled again to the boy who pulled out an awl and small mallet. Nanneth accepted the tools, then pantomimed hammering actions along Guthere's skull while making cracking sounds.

Cenhelm went pale. "You want to poke more holes in his head?"

Nanneth nodded pleasantly. They could hear one of the dogs scratching at the dirt outside, the room had fallen so quiet. Thengel had heard of such procedures, but they took place in the theater in the House of Healing by the most skilled healers the world of Men had to offer. Not on someone's dining table by an old woman whose assistant still had his milk teeth.

"Certainly not," he told her.

The old woman shrugged, as if Prince Thengel's opinion was neither here nor there.

Lady Morwen, still turned away, asked, "Nanneth, have you ever done this before?"

"I saw it done once," Nanneth mumbled. "In Minas Tirith years ago."

"Years ago?" Cenhelm sputtered.

"Nanneth wouldn't suggest it if she didn't think Guthere had a chance," said Lady Morwen.

Thengel agreed with Cenhelm. "The risk is too great."

Nanneth laid a fluffy, spotted hand on Guthere's forehead. "Then he dies."

Thengel rubbed his jaw, a day's worth of growth comfortingly abrasive on his skin. He had to weigh the decision carefully, after all, as responsibility for this retinue ultimately fell on him. Cenhelm and Thengel stepped away from the table to confer without being overheard.

"I regret coming here," Cenhelm confided in Rohirric. "There's more of witchcraft about that woman, than healing. I've never heard of anyone knocking holes into a man's head to heal him. She's ancient enough to be senile and I wouldn't blame her if she was. It doesn't give her leave to butcher injured men. And who is her assistant? A child. Helm's beard."

"I don't pretend to understand, but I know it has been done before," said Thengel tiredly. "The conditions are not ideal, but Lady Morwen seems to think the woman knows what she's doing."

"Lady Morwen is a child herself, if you haven't noticed," Cenhelm muttered. "Who is she that we take her word? This isn't a field hospital. How often do they see wounds of this magnitude in Imloth Melui?"

Thengel weighed these things in his mind. The pressure to decide made his eyes ache. "One thing we know without Nanneth telling us is that Guthere will die." His voice filled with regret. "I say we try."

"Very well, my lord," Cenhelm answered stiffly.

Returning to the table, Thengel gave the healer a nod. The boy produced a razor and strop for his grandmother to use. She went to work after a little sharpening, shaving Guthere's head, then pinning back the skin to expose bone. She took the awl and hammer and with careful precision, made the first hole.

The servants scattered after the first scrape of the awl against bone. Only Lady Morwen remained and her servant Beldir. She had not turned toward the table since Nanneth lifted the flap of skin above the broken skull, but she held her place with her back to the table through the hammering and sound of cracking bone. Thengel found he could not look away as the old woman made a wreath of holes in the skull, then carefully chipped away at the bone to unite them till a small disk came loose.

Thengel realized then that he had been holding his breath. But releasing it had been a mistake. Lady Morwen turned, as if the sound meant the worst had passed. Instead, she witnessed Nanneth dipping her finger into the open wound.

"Hnh," Nanneth grunted, then pulled out her finger. It made a small sucking sound and a purple globule and a bit of bone came out with it. There was a collective gasp of, "Oh!" around the table. Lady Morwen spun around took a few teetering steps away from the scene.

"Whoop," said the old lady as previously blocked blood pooled on the table.

###

Nanneth wound clean linen around the wound after what seemed like a very short time to Thengel. One by one, the curious servants returned who had scattered when the trepaning first began. Now they had only to wait to see how Guthere would respond to the surgery. This meant that other business presented itself - like whether or not the lady would accept strange men as house-guests. Thengel tapped Cenhelm on the arm and indicated that Guthere was in his care. The guard nodded his understanding and stood sentinel over the table. Thengel walked toward Lady Morwen, who waited apart from the others.

"Might I have a word, Lady Morwen?" he asked quietly.

Cheeks washed of color, her eyes were glazed and stared unseeing down the dark corridor opposite the table. Thengel seemed to be calling her out of some deep well of thought. After a moment, she blinked up at him.

"Is it safe?" Lady Morwen murmured.

He glanced back over his shoulder. Guthere's head had been crowned white with linen and Nanneth had turned her attention to the other cuts and scrapes on his face and neck. "For the moment," he answered. "I'm sorry the blood troubles you."

Lady Morwen's eyes focused sharply on his as if he had insulted her. "I can tolerate blood as well as anybody. Lifting the skin away from the wound, however." She shuddered again, pressing her palm to her mouth.

"Try not to think about it," he advised.

She flashed him a look over her hand as if to say she would have done so already if possible - and if he hadn't brought it up again.

"You seem to have no trouble." Her voice sounded tight with suppressed sick.

Thengel tried to look apologetic. He thought dispassionately about the surgery instruments, the white bone, the viscous dye blooming over the cloths. Soldiers performed their own operations, less delicate, typically successful. Killing came easier than healing and he'd grown accustomed to it. Human blood, at least, had a beautiful jewel tone he could appreciate. Not the oily black muck orcs sprayed whenever they were gutted by a blade. He decided not to explain that.

Instead, he asked, "Is there another place where we might talk?"

Lady Morwen led Thengel across the hall toward the cavernous hearth where two chairs stood. She gestured for him to take the chair across the buckskin rug near the fire that burned low in the grate. The fire provided a little light for the room. Though just past noon already the shadows of evening were falling across the valley where the walls acted as screens to block the sun. He looked around the hall, seeing for the first time beyond the tunnel vision brought on by the crisis. Narrow windows, set in walls almost as thick as his arm was long, allowed bars of light to dissect the stone floor. High-backed chairs and wooden benches were pushed back against the walls after the last meal near the chest where the candles came from. The table commanded the center of the room, though there were divots in the stone nearer the corridor that suggested years of a head table in that area during feasts. Lamps hung unused from old beams. They were smaller and poorer than ones used in Mithlond, but beautiful in their simplicity. He could imagine it would cost Lady Morwen a fortune in oil to light them regularly. His attention returned then to the young woman and her hearth. She chose the chair that faced away from the table. A few sheaves of paper were piled on one of the broad arms and he could just see the makings of a list. Wine - Adrahil. Cabbages…

"What can I do for you, Prince Thengel?" she asked, drawing his attention away from the list. The imperious manner she had adopted earlier had fallen away and here he found the woman Morwen, not the Lady of Bar-en-Ferin.

"Pardon us for troubling your house," he said humbly. "We're in a bind. Guthere cannot be moved and the rest of my men are still tracking our horses. I'm afraid we have nowhere to go and must trespass on your hospitality."

Lady Morwen tapped her lips with a long finger. "I see your predicament. It would be impossible for you to move your friend, even if you had the means. And where would you go? I have rooms to spare with a little shuffling. There were five of you, I believe?"

"Yes," Thengel answered. "Though I do not know when to expect the last of our party to return with our horses." He leaned back in the chair as his body remembered it ought to be tired. "Our luck was against us today."

"Frankly, it's good luck that only one of your men suffered injury after the storm we had," she mused.

"That is one way of looking at it," Thengel agreed. "And we were fortunate to find aid so readily in a place where we are unknown."

"Guthere will receive all the care we can give," she assured him. "We do not turn away those in need in Lossarnach."

Thengel bowed his head. "Thank you, my lady."

She waved away his thanks. "Perhaps you can answer some of my questions. How exactly did you withstand the storm?"

"We passed the storm in the hut of an artist." The memory made him cringe. The stink of goat hit him again.

"Teitharion?" she gasped, then covered her mouth to hide a knowing grin. "I'm sorry."

Thengel smiled grimly. "He has a reputation, I see."

Lady Morwen nodded behind her hand. Then she sobered and a line appeared between her eyes as a thought struck her. "You seemed surprised when I arrived," she recalled.

"You noticed?" he said. Thengel wished she hadn't. "Well, when Gladhon described a plantation in a retired valley, I thought it belonged to…"

The lady failed to conceal a smirk. "A retired woman?" she finished.

"Forgive me," he said, not without humor. "I mistook your housekeeper for you."

"What? Gildis!" Lady Morwen looked like she might hug herself.

While Thengel appreciated this mood over her more imperious one, he felt a bit sour at being laughed at. After all, it was an honest mistake.

"I have met few…to be honest, no women your age who are head of their household," he pointed out.

"I suppose not," she replied blandly, as if she couldn't be bothered to care what anyone thought about her household or her age. Fortunately, she changed the subject. "What brought you to Imloth Melui in the first place, may I ask?"

"Certainly." Thengel rubbed his aching eyes, suddenly feeling very tired. "I met Lord Hardang during my last tour of Ithilien. He spoke often of Lossarnach and its beauty. A month ago I returned to Minas Tirith from Ithilien after a long absence, as I am sure you have heard of our struggles in that land."

Lady Morwen frowned, her eyes dim and thoughtful. "We have felt it even in Lossarnach. Not the danger, exactly," she was hasty to add. "But Lord Hardang was my kinsmen and he fell in Ithilien. Did you know him well?"

"Well enough. Hardang stood with me in the final push that freed Ecthelion and his company from the orcs assaulting one of his fortified dens in Emyn Arnen."

This was news, it seemed. The skin around Lady Morwen's eyes grew tight with some emotion. He wished she hadn't asked about the why he'd come to Lossarnach, but he could understand her desire to know. It must not happen often. He doubted many visitors had such a sad connection to her own family.

"I have heard precious little about my cousin's final moments," she confided, eyes fixed on her knees. "And nothing of his time in that part of the country after the Steward called on him to send men."

"It is not a pleasant topic," Thengel replied. "Even years after the Dark Lord's defeat, evil still breeds in Mordor. The land lies empty and open to any foul creature and that evil is now spilling out onto our borders."

"Yes. We have a great many refugees from Ithilien in this fief who remember the ambushes and raids on their homes," she told him. "When Hardang left, he expressed a hope that Captain Ecthelion would one day push the orcs out for good, maybe even allow families to return." Her gray eyes pinned him, wanting good news, but daring him to lie if there wasn't any. "Is there hope?"

Thengel felt troubled, weighing in his mind what he ought to tell this young woman with the sad, gray eyes. But then, something about her seemed steely enough to bear it, besides she had already lost enough that the truth would little matter.

"If they were Gondor's only trouble…" He combed his fingers through the back of his hair. "Even then, it looks bleak, my lady. These creatures multiply beyond reckoning, bent on harassing free lands. We cannot breach their strongholds. The captain's men merely provide a retention wall, if truth be told. Without Hardang's aid, in fact, we wouldn't have broken the siege on his den," Thengel admitted.

"Did he tell you about my house?" she asked quietly. "How did you know about Imloth Melui?"

Thengel shook his head. "No, that was Gladhon. My men and I wanted an escape from the city and entering the valley was a last minute decision when I saw the greenway. Hardang invited me to come to Arnach before he fell. I came to pay my respects to his household. We were going to bring a hind as a gift, but it ran ill."

"You are welcome. Hardang's word holds in this valley, dead or alive," she said gravely. "You may find it necessary to stay, for your companion's sake. You are welcome in my house, or you may leave him in our care if you wish to travel on to Arnach."

"I do not know what to do," he admitted as he stared down at his open palms in his lap. "Guthere would not like to be left behind."

Lady Morwen ran her fingers over the chair's polished wooden arm, thinking. "We are celebrating the blossoms soon. Hardang's brothers Halmir and Hundor will arrive at my house before the end of the week. You may pay your respect when they arrive, then travel with them to Arnach where Hardang's widow, Ferneth, has chosen to remain."

He inclined his head toward her. "Thank you, my lady. That would answer my dilemma."

Thengel then noticed his guard hovering on the edge of firelight. "Yes, Cenhelm?"

"Beg your pardon," he said with a respectful bow toward the lady. "The healer has finished." His eyes flicked between them, as if to ask what came next.

"Lady Morwen has offered to let us stay and care for Guthere here," Thengel told him.

"Yes." Lady Morwen rose. "I will show you where to move Guthere."

###

Cenhelm and Thengel carried Guthere with the scarecrow's help into one of the spare rooms down the corridor and laid him out on the bed placed in an alcove near another of the slim windows. Gildis followed with Guthere's boots and a bottle of some potion Nanneth left in the event the rider did wake. Cenhelm indicated his intention to stay the night in the room to watch over Guthere's progress, which Thengel echoed. Though visibly uncomfortable with this arrangement, Lady Morwen instructed Gildis to have comfortable chairs brought in.

"It seems like poor hospitality not to give you rooms of your own," she worried as the chairs came in. "My household can take turns siting up with Guthere while you have some much needed rest."

"I appreciate your offer and it's no reflection on your hospitality," Thengel replied. "But we try to take care of our own when we can."

"Will you join the household for supper, at least?" Lady Morwen asked as Beldir and the boy Gundor entered with richly upholstered chairs and stools from another room.

Thengel was about to reply that at least one of them should remain with their companion, but a snort from Gildis interrupted him.

"The dining table is unfit for use," she reminded them all. "Supper will be served in the kitchen tonight while the table receives a scouring." Lady Morwen looked surprised, but when she tried to raise an objection, Gildis cut her off too. "I've already spoken with Hareth. It's the best we can do under the circumstances."

"Very well," Lady Morwen answered. "Forgive us, Prince Thengel. We do not customarily serve princes dinner in the kitchen."

"We are to blame," he reminded her. "In fact, Cenhelm and I will make sure the table is put to rights." Cenhelm nodded.

Lady Morwen held up a hand. "No. You are my guests."

"I insist," he said stiffly.

"So do I," she replied. The imperious brow returned, and she moved in such a way as to block his path to the door. "Watch over your friend. A servant will fetch your supper when it is ready."

Lady Morwen left them alone with a sweep of skirts before Thengel could argue the point further. Her servants followed behind. He stared at the back of the door after Gildis closed it behind her mistress.

"She likes to have her own way," he reflected.

Cenhelm coughed.

Thengel turned to face his guard. "Speak, Cenhelm."

"With all due respect," Cenhelm said dryly, "The lady's no worse than you for stiff necks."

"Oh? My neck's stiff, is it?" Thengel's eyelids dropped in a show of indifference. He liked Cenhelm, but the guard had an annoying habit of criticizing Thengel in the same manner as Uncle Oswin.

"You might have asked the lady to provide water to wash with instead of arguing over the table," Cenhelm pointed out. "I'm relieved Guthere survived two holes in the head so far, but I'm none too grateful I still have to smell him. It's hardly a May morning in here."

Thengel was about to retort when someone knocked on the door. He slewed toward the sound. "Yes?"

"Pardon, lords," a servant said through the wood. "Lady Morwen sends her compliments and says you're to have a bath."

Cenhelm hastily opened the door on a stream of servants carrying pitchers of hot and tepid water and a tub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Lia and Gythja for helpful critique!


	5. Morwen

Whatever steel had kept Morwen upright through the tumult of the previous afternoon, it had finally deserted her when she entered the solitude of her own chamber. Weariness kept her from doing more than scrub the dirt from her hands and arms after changing out of her rumpled overdress. She draped the garment carefully over a chair under the window and threw herself into bed with less care.

When she awoke the next morning to birdsong, the weight of the day dropped into her lap like an overfed cat. Morwen clambered out of bed, untangling a foot wound in the blankets. She could tell from the quality of light filtering in through the window that she had overslept. How had she done that? Yesterday had been a full day of hard work, but she hadn't overslept since she was a girl.

Of course, she hadn't witnessed what amounted to a near scalping before. Life must keep little stomach-wrenching surprises in her pockets to keep poor mortals on their toes, Morwen thought, and life had certainly marked Morwen out for a full share. She had discussed the situation with Gildis the night before and they agreed the overseeing of the patient's health and that care of his master would fall on Gildis. Her upbringing, however, led Morwen to feel obliged to put in an appearance in the sick room, not to mention to satisfy her curiosity. Morwen wanted to know that nobody had died under her roof during the night, proving that spring had laid a curse on Lossarnach.

Spring ought to bring hope and renewal, but lately it seemed only to bring news of death. With an ache that forced her to stop and lean on her dressing table, Morwen wanted her father. Randir made responsibility look so simple. She had spent the year proudly filling his shoes, pretending to be fearless when her knees were knocking together. Now Lossemeren loomed overhead and a near corpse lay in the other room. When standing on her own counted most, she wasn't sure if she was equal to it.

Coincidence, she told herself. Only a coincidence that her father had died unexpectedly just after the blossom festival last year. Her cousin Hardang's death just a month prior had been completely unrelated. Rangers died in Ithilien all the time. And the prince's guard suffered from sheer bad luck, but thanks to Nanneth, would probably live.

Morwen concentrated on her breathing until the pang subsided. The shame of Bar-en-Ferin falling down around her ears and her love for the inconsequential little valley of wild roses forced Morwen to finish dressing. If she left at once, she wouldn't be too far behind Beldir, she thought as she clawed at her tangled hair with a comb from the table. It chafed thinking that she wasn't with them. Her overseer was a capable man, but the orchard was a matter of pride — well wasn't it? She had a lot to prove. Slowly, Morwen's resolve grew.

How many women her age had the complete run of their own households? A hands-off landlord, Hardang had left her alone, but with Lossemeren around the corner and her other cousins coming to stay, it was an opportunity to prove to that she could handle the responsibility.

But she also had a responsibility beyond the orchard and that was one of hospitality. Morwen sighed and jerked the comb through another tangle. In the end, she had to choose people before trees. She wouldn't have to linger, just put in an appearance to satisfy her need to know that the rider would pull through and to pay her respects to the prince.

Morwen twisted the long heap of black hair into a knot and pinned it up, remembering why she shouldn't wear it loose when she worked. The knot should do until she could work out the snarls later. Then she hastily threw on the surcoat over her wrinkled shift and retreated toward the door.

…

No one but Morwen stirred along the somber line of shut doors when she stepped into the corridor. The quiet felt odd and cast a lonesome air over that wing of the house. Gildis and one of her girls should have had the doors open, airing the rooms while they worked. But perhaps fear of disturbing the sick room kept them away.

Morwen bit her lip, trying to decide if she should avoid it too and get on with her morning duties, or take the chance of disturbing the prince and his men while being a good hostess. Hirwen would choose the orchard, Randir the guests. Although she knew she had a reputation for having her own way, in reality, these disparate ghosts often dictated Morwen's decisions. The only philosophy she could claim for herself was to fain certainty until it became a reality.

The bare walls and floor amplified the sound of another door latch. At first Morwen expecting Gildis, but Prince Thengel's grim guard, Cenhelm appeared on the threshold. He held one of Nanneth's vials in his hand. They blinked at one another awkwardly. Morwen because she had expected Gildis and Cenhelm because he hadn't recognized her as the lady of the house, at first.

Cenhelm stepped into the passage and gingerly closed the door behind him.

"Good morning, my lady," he said grimly.

"Good morning," she replied. "How has Guthere fared?"

She felt doubtful from the haggard lines on Cenhelm's face.

"He is awake."

It took a moment for Morwen to realize she had heard correctly, the news had been delivered with such a melancholy humor. She almost didn't know if she ought to feel as relieved as she did.

"When?"

"Not a quarter of an hour ago. Guthere spoke a few words, said he was thirsty," said Cenhelm. "The prince is with him now, so I meant to trouble your housekeeper. The old woman instructed us to mix the contents of this bottle with wine to provide relief against the pain."

"As I have not yet seen Gildis this morning, I will bring you the wine myself," Morwen promised.

Cenhelm thanked her before disappearing behind the door again.

In the hall, she retrieved a decanter of wine and one of the glasses stored inside the locked cupboard between the windows. She had just locked it again when Gildis crept up on her from behind.

"Oh! My lady, I thought you would be out with Beldir by now, but I'm glad I found you. There's this bundle that came for you yesterday."

Pulled in yet another direction this morning, Morwen felt a knot form between her shoulders, radiating tension and annoyance. She faced the housekeeper and tried not to show her irritation.

"Just a moment, Gildis," she replied, tucking the key into a pocket. "The injured rider woke up."

"And he asked for a whole bottle of wine?" Gildis asked incredulously.

"Of course not," Morwen replied sharply. "Nanneth said to mix it with a tincture she left."

Gildis shifted a bundle from under one arm. "Give me the wine. I'll bring it to them. Hareth has their breakfast ready anyhow." She held out the parcel toward Morwen. "I want you to take a look at this instead, so I don't have to keep carting it around with me. I think it may be important."

"Whatever it is, it can wait." Gildis looked mutinous, so Morwen held up a hand and said gently, "Leave it in my room, if you must. I will take the wine myself and you bring the breakfast. Now that they're awake, I should at least greet all my guests before I disappear up the slope. Besides, I want to see the rider's condition for myself."

Gildis's lips pushed in and out as if she were sampling different words to find which ones she wanted. Finally, she said, "I think you ought to leave it to me like we agreed last night. I've already ordered their breakfast. Besides, it isn't exactly seemly for you to be going in and out of another man's bedroom. It's the appearance, you know."

Morwen huffed. "Gildis, in my house, I can go into a sick man's room without it appearing to be anything other than what it is."

"There are certain rules about —"

"In my house, I make the rules," Morwen countered. It was a cheap shot, but really, who in this unimportant little valley would care what Morwen did?

"Very well." Gildis sniffed. "But about this package, Lady Morwen—"

"Please, Gildis, just wait a little longer," Morwen replied over her shoulder as she hastened to deliver the wine to Guthere's grim attendants.

…

Cenhelm met Morwen at the door and ushered her inside, into darkness. The door closed soundlessly behind her. Drapes covered the windows but for a small sliver that admitted enough light to keep anyone from tripping over the quilt rack in the middle of the room or the chairs spread throughout the space. She wondered at the rack, then realized one of them had probably used it to prop up their legs while they slept. She really needed to make sure they had proper places to sleep now that Guthere had awakened.

The sliver of light dissected the chair pushed against Guthere's bed. The prince leaned over the arm toward Guthere, with his back to Morwen. So engrossed in watching over the sick bed, Prince Thengel did not seem to know she had entered.

"It's so dark," she murmured to Cenhelm. It seemed wrong to disturb the darkness by speaking above a whisper.

"The light pains Guthere," Cenhelm explained. "But I will draw the curtains if you wish."

She touched his arm to stay him. "No, no. I won't linger long. Don't trouble him on my account."

Falling silent, Morwen listened to the conversation across the room. Prince Thengel spoke in a low, rhythmic tone in the language of his homeland. He sounded deadly serious and she thought she better not interrupt him. Guthere's voice, muffled by pain and a swollen face, responded with a word here and there.

Cenhelm cleared his throat. "My prince, the Lady Morwen is here."

Prince Thengel turned his attention away from his charge only briefly to see for himself. Morwen thought he looked like a man who had spent the night in a chair, hair rumpled and the deep lines on either side of his mouth and eyes seemed exaggerated with fatigue and worry. Morwen felt a jolt of guilt, despite the fact that both Prince Thengel and Cenhelm had refused beds of their own. If the prince had a stiff neck…it was because of his stiff neck.

He acknowledged her with a nod in her general direction, and began to speak Guthere again, this time in Westron. Beside the nod, it seemed the only real acknowledgement of her presence. She felt surprised and a little annoyed to find that the subject of the deadly serious conversation happened to be fishing! Guthere seemed disappointed in the prince's ideas of technique.

"Where is the vial?" Morwen whispered to Cenhelm, feeling she ought to get her part of the business over with.

Cenhelm fished the vial out of his pocket to show her. He indicated the table across the room where they could mix the potion with the wine. They experienced a moment's confusion, since Nanneth hadn't specified just how much wine to use. In the end, Cenhelm decided to err on the side of too much wine rather than too little.

Nanneth's tincture smelled like a molding compost heap and wet ashes. The wine added a sickly, sweet bouquet that made the bile rise in Morwen's throat. Prince Thengel accepted the wine glass from Cenhelm. He sniffed, grimaced, then held the glass as far away as possible. He said a very short word in Rohirric probably not meant for her ears.

Morwen approached the bed hesitantly, feeling like an outsider and yet curious to see the affects of the potion. The prince and his guard seemed to accept her presence at the bedside, or at least to tolerate it. When she saw Guthere up close, she flinched. Although the bandages covered the worst of his injuries, the poor man looked like a purple goblin from the swelling and bruising, exaggerated by shadows. Guthere's eyes were dark and tight with pain as they fixed on Prince Thengel. Then they widened and relaxed on Morwen's face when she stepped into the thin sunbeam.

"Good morning, Guthere," she murmured.

"This is Lady Morwen," Prince Thengel said in a low voice. "You are in her house."

To her surprise, Guthere smiled just long enough to erase the visage of pain. She found herself smiling back at him. Then Cenhelm carefully slid his arm beneath Guthere's pillow to bolster the man up so as not to choke on the mixture. The poor man looked like he didn't want anything to do with jostlings or potions.

"I'm warning you, Guthere, it smells like a troll's—" Prince Thengel started to say when Cenhelm cleared his throat. The prince glanced at Morwen, then back at Guthere, so she never did get to hear what exactly it smelled like. "Well, just hold your nose and think of Fengel King."

Morwen felt at a loss to understand what Prince Thengel meant by those trivial words without any context, but Cenhelm gave his prince a black look, sharp with disapproval. The look was wasted on the prince who concentrated on not drowning Guthere while he tipped the contents of the glass down the man's throat. Guthere coughed and sputtered, before the medicine began to work and his body relaxed. A few garbled words passed his lips, then he dozed off.

Now that Guthere had fallen asleep, Morwen had done her duty.

"Nanneth will be along again soon, I'm certain, but I'll send someone to tell her of Guthere's progress," Morwen said to excuse herself. "Your breakfast should be along soon."

"Thank you, my lady," Cenhelm said.

Prince Thengel passed the glass to Cenhelm, then rose from the chair. He pressed his hand into his back as if he had a pain there. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then Hareth let herself in with Ioneth to set out a small feast. The servant girl, being extremely shy of these visitors, slipped from the room as soon as the tray hit the table. Hareth rolled her eyes.

"Is there anything else we can get for you?" Morwen asked.

"No, this will do," the prince answered, really looking at her for the first time. He smiled, though it was a pale one. It made him look even more tired. "Thank you."

Sensing her dismissal, Morwen slipped out of the room with Hareth.

"They don't say much, do they?" the cook noted with a snort once they were in the hall.

Morwen had to agree. She would have felt almost unwanted if not for Cenhelm and there had been an undercurrent in the exchanges between the three men that she could not begin to guess at on less than twenty-four hour acquaintance.

"They've had a nasty time and little rest," Morwen by way of justification, as much for her benefit as for Hareth's.

The cook shrugged her broad, round shoulders. "Did Gildis find you?"

"Yes - oh dear!" Morwen suddenly exclaimed as the hall door burst open. "What's he doing here?"

Hareth's son Gundor, apprenticed to Beldir, ought to have been by the overseer's side on the orchard slope. Instead, he trotted toward Morwen with sweat dripping down his face. He bobbed at the waist like a crane bobbing for insects once he reached her.

"M-my lady, Beldir sent me to ask if you mean to come this morning. We're shorthanded on account of the miller's daughter eloping last night and now the miller's shut up all the children at home. And now Beldir says the world's going to end," the boy rattled off with barely a breath between.

It took moment for the meaning to settle. Then the blood drained from Morwen's face.

"World's end? Is that what Beldir really said?" Hareth snapped before Morwen could manage a word.

Gundor's eyes flicked back and forth between mother and mistress. "Well," he whinged, "he really said Lossemeren would be ruined and that's sort of the same thing."

Ruined. Gundor voiced her fear and Morwen felt her rib cage tighten as she tried to breathe. Then she felt the weight of Hareth's hand on her shoulder.

"Beldir is an old shroud-hanger and you know it," Hareth told her mistress with a stern tone. "It can't be as bad as all that. You can't help it if the entire valley decides to lock up their daughters for the rest of the day. Those silly girls will be back before you know it or I don't know their father. He'll send them flocking back as soon as he misses the few coins they earn doing next to nothing."

The cook had a point, but anxiety had already set in. As the miller had an enormous family, they were down a considerable part of their workforce. They could cope in a general way, but not in time for the feast. If they didn't clean up the orchard, everyone would notice and everyone would know that Morwen had failed to run Bar-en-Ferin and worse — to live up to Hirwen's reputation.

The world really would end if the orchard wasn't in order for the feast.

"So, what should I tell Beldir?" Gundor asked.

"Tell Beldir —" Morwen threw her hands up in the air; it would waste time thinking up a message. "Oh nevermind, I'll be right there."

Gundor gave his mother a look, perhaps wondering if he could get a chance at another meal before he left, but she only waved the empty tray at him. He took the hint and scarpered, bowling over Gildis on the way out.

….

Once recovered, and after a few choice words for Gundor, Gildis stalked toward Morwen with a look of determination on her face. Her arms locked around the parcel with a vice grip.

"Ah, Lady Morwen, your business with the Prince has concluded," she said with only a hint of acid in her tone. "Good."

Morwen swallowed back a groan. Stars! After the news that she had lost much needed help in the orchard, the last thing she wanted was another delay!

"What is it, Gildis?" she asked as calmly as she could.

Gildis's wiry frame seemed to bow beneath the weight of martyrdom. "Lady Morwen, I have waited for you half the morning. You might spare me one tiny moment."

Morwen sighed. "Oh, all right." If the world happened to be ending, what difference did it make if she joined Beldir or not?

"Excuse us, Hareth." Gildis gave the cook a look that suggested she wouldn't put up with a third party in this particular discussion.

Sniffing indignantly, Hareth sailed between them, back to her kitchen.

"This won't take a moment," Gildis reassured Morwen. "It's about this package."

Morwen took the bundle in her arms and turned it this way and that. "I was not expecting anything. When did it come?"

"It arrived yesterday morning. In all the excitement, I forgot to give it to you."

The paper had a crinkled look that led Morwen to think that it had been opened more than once. Nosy Gildis - and probably Hareth too! She sat down on a chair pushed against the wall while she untied the strings holding it together. The paper fell away in her lap, followed by a cascade of rich silk embroidered over in blooming roses, yards and yards of it. She forgot the orchard immediately.

"Gildis," she breathed as she fingered the needlework. Custom work from Minas Tirith, she didn't doubt. It would cost a small fortune. "What is this?"

"A gift, I imagine," Gildis answered.

"A gift?" A line appeared between Morwen's brows as she puzzled over the costly fabric. The queasy feeling she experienced during the surgery returned. "But where did it come from?"

Gildis pulled a card out of a pocket hidden within the folds of her skirts. "The carrier brought it up from Arnach."

"Arnach?" Morwen stared at the card feeling more puzzled than ever. The seal, a rose in bloom flanked by two buds. Her cousin's personal stamp. "Why would Halmir send this? He never brings me anything back from Minas Tirith when he visits."

Gildis pressed her lips into a paper-thin line when Morwen looked up at her for an answer. She knew that look well. The housekeeper reserved it for the times when she either didn't like the answer she had to give, or else she felt that Morwen acted purposefully obtuse. Morwen had a feeling that Gildis's sour expression related to both in this instance.

"Only Lord Halmir can say," Gildis answered with a cryptic thread in her voice. "What would you like me to do with it?"

Morwen stood and shuffled the fabric into Gildis's arms as if it was woven from stinging nettles. "I have no idea," she said glibly. "What use do I have for such fine cloth?"

"It is a conjecture, but the intent might be for a dress," Gildis pointed out, giving Morwen's faded surcoat an unsatisfied glance. "A proper one."

Morwen stared at her. "I can't trim branches in silk."

"No," Gildis agreed slowly. "You might find other uses for a lovely dress."

Doubtful, Morwen thought to herself. Her needs were practical and this fabric had frivolity sewn all over it. Leave it to Halmir to choose something beautiful and useless. She had a nice dress refitted from one of her mother's and it came out but once a year for Lossemeren or whenever she visited Cousin Angelimir and Adrahil in Minas Tirith. But those visits had grown rarer since Randir's death and Adrahil's marriage.

"He probably sent this in a fit of generosity precipitated by grief. He knew I favored Hardang," Morwen added thoughtfully. She knew her cousin never gave anything away for free, least of all to a little cousin he once left in an apple tree while he carried off the ladder.

"I can't accept this from Halmir. It is common knowledge that he's impulsive," she said with disgust. "I shouldn't wonder if he already regrets the loss of coin."

"If you say so, my lady," Gildis replied.

Morwen tossed the card into the empty fireplace. "Wrap the silk again.

"Shall I send a courier or would you like to return it to him at the feast?" Gildis asked.

Morwen hadn't thought of that. "Find someone to take it right away. The sooner the silk is back in his hands, the sooner he'll be relieved of whatever folly made him send it in the first place."

Gildis smiled unexpectedly.

"What?"

The smile disappeared. "Oh nothing. I just remembered that Hareth owes me a few silver pennies."

"I see," Morwen replied dryly, though she didn't. The cook and the housekeeper seemed to have a secret understanding that went back long before Morwen had been born. Servants' prerogative, she supposed, choosing not to inquire.

"Well, you had better go," said Gildis, suddenly urgent now that her own business with the mistress had been attended to. "It's almost noon!"

As if she needed the reminder!

…

Morwen felt the pressure on her chest release as she stepped out into the glorious sunshine that filtered through the trees shading the yard. At last, the free air! The stress of the sick room and her kinsman's odd behavior, even the weight of her responsibilities felt like nothing. Busy hands were the best cure for bad feelings and an anxious heart, Hirwen always said.

The air still smelled of wet dirt and freshly bathed grass and leaves. The yard seemed strangely quiet. All the dogs must have chased Beldir and the others into the orchard. She didn't mind them being underfoot. Later, when the fruit began to grow, the dogs frightened away the birds and other animals all hoping for an easy supper of cherries, apples, peaches and plums.

If she ran, she could make it to the upper slopes before everyone stopped for their midday meal. First, she would have to get out of view of the house, or rather, out of Gildis's line of sight.

The shingle crunched beneath Morwen's boots as she followed the long line of the house toward the back where a path lead through the birch grove, a shortcut that bypassed the wandering path of the greenway before it arrived at the orchard walls.

Morwen made a sharp turn around the corner of the house. Instead of an empty path, she came face to face with a the velvety muzzle of a horse, nearly receiving an unfortunate knock to the head. Woman and horse startled. Morwen fell against the side of the house while the horse sidled nervously by. The tall, dark rider reined in the creature before quickly dismounting.

Morwen pulled together what dignity she had after a scare like that while the rider apologized profusely. Tousled and dirty, he looked as though he had spent more than one night deep in the woods. Behind him, a man with a shaven head and an alarming set of tattoos down his neck waited with a line of horses. Both men looked haggard, with shoulders stooped by weariness. Their lips were grim lines.

Morwen recognized the filthy Gondorian as Gladhon, the son of a woodsman who lived in the valley. Gladhon passed the reins on to his companion. Touching a hand to his breast, Gladhon bowed.

"Begging your pardon, Lady Morwen. I did not mean to run you down," he said humbly.

"Hello, Gladhon," she replied dryly, rubbing the elbow she skinned on the wall.

Gladhon scratched the back of his neck where the dirty hair met skin. "Er, we've just returned with the Prince's horses."

"I see that," she replied. After all, at least one of them had nearly trampled her.

The tattooed rider, and the grimmest of the two, dismounted and murmured something to Gladhon. A thick accent obscured whatever he said.

"Thurstan wishes to be presented to you, my lady. He is another of Prince Thengel's Rohirric guard," said Gladhon. The rider bowed at the waist. "He wishes to know what news you have of our wounded companion and Prince Thengel."

"Your companion Guthere is well. The healer managed to - to…well, she patched him up." Morwen swallowed. "Guthere awoke this morning and even spoke a few words with Prince Thengel."

The men looked at one another. Gladhon laughed and clapped his companion on the back. The Rohirric guard managed a smile. "Well, that's a good word. We'd imagined the worst. I feel much lighter. Don't you, Thurstan? No, I suppose not."

"The horses need proper attention," Thurstan replied gravely in highly accented Westron.

"I believe Beldir outfitted the stable with everything you will need," Morwen told them. "I can show you the way."

"I remember where the stable is, my lady," Gladhon told her. "Don't trouble yourself. Only, the Prince should be told we have arrived with our quarry."

Morwen's heart sank beneath the duty of hospitality. "Oh course. I will tell him myself right now. If you'll follow me."

The orchard never felt so far away as Morwen retraced her steps across the yard. She didn't believe in fate. Yet, she couldn't help wondering if fate had conspired against her, whether she believed in it or not.

"Did you have a difficult time tracking the horses?" she asked politely as they followed behind her across the shingle toward the outbuildings.

"Sure," Gladhon replied. "Thurstan thought they were trying to gallop back to Rohan. I say they didn't care where they went, so long as they didn't have to spend another night in Teithalion's wormy lean-to."

Thurstan looked impassive at the mention of the artist.

"I thought you would have better sense than to stay the night in his hut," Morwen pointed out.

"Oh, I'd forgotten his eccentric ways. I haven't been this way in so long. You know, I was just telling Thurstan here about the years I used to work in the orchard as a boy," Gladhon mused. "There were some days in Ithilien where I wished I could go back to those simpler days, climbing trees and picking apples."

Morwen's agile mind saw light. She would have stopped dead in her tracks if not for the immediate danger of getting trampled again.

What if she had mistaken the omens? What if fate had just conspired in her favor? Albeit, in a roundabout way involving an unfortunate accident. What were errant miller's daughters to two or three grown men with nothing to do while their friend convalesced?

Morwen gave Gladhon a radiant smile. "Who says you can't?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Lia, Gythja, Thanwen, and Gwynnyd for helping to turn this train wreck of a chapter around. :)


	6. Thunor

Morwen arrived on Guthere's threshold the next morning with an offering of lilies of the valley, "To sweeten the air," she told Cenhelm when he opened the door. "May I speak to Prince Thengel?"

Cenhelm disappeared with the mug of white bells and Prince Thengel replaced him at the door. He followed her into the corridor.

"Lady Morwen," he said.

"Prince Thengel."

Now that he was in front of her, she felt out of her depth. Gladhon had enthusiastically agreed to broach the subject of labor with the prince before they shared the evening meal. By the time the prince had returned to the sickroom, they had entered into an agreement. Although it worked to both of their advantages, the shift from benefactress to something more symbiotic left her feeling unsure of herself.

"I wanted to say how kind it is of you to lend your men to help on the plantation." Morwen tried to sound polite and cool rather than eager. "I'm grateful for it."

The prince regarded her silently as if trying to puzzle her out.

"Not at all," he eventually replied.

Morwen thought he sounded exactly the way she wanted to. Diplomatic. Detached. It was not reassuring coming from him. She still couldn't shake that awkwardness of not knowing how to respond to him. Her father would know. Randir would be warm and friendly. Until Morwen could figure out Prince Thengel, she opted for something between formality and ingratiation.

"I wouldn't allow it ordinarily," she confided, "but the storm put us behind in our preparations."

"So Gladhon said. My men are only happy to have a task to occupy their time. We are indebted to you for your kind hospitality."

She hardly thought allowing her guest to sleep on a chair and a quilt rack qualified as hospitality, but that had been Prince Thengel's choice. One night in Teitharion's cottage and two nights spent on uncomfortable chairs, using a quilt rack to prop up his legs had taken its toll on the prince. His hair would not lie down, as if it had a mind of its own or preferred to grow to show off its color and curl. It gave him a a savage aspect, though the man's face was a bit ruddy, and the expression grave rather than brutish. Not a bad face. There were a few deep lines etching along his mouth and eyes, but it looked more like exposure to the sun and wind were the culprits than age.

"Was there anything else you wanted to speak to me about?" he asked her.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," she told him. "Gildis prepared a room for you. I understand Guthere is resting well through the night and requires less care."

Prince Thengel allowed Morwen to lead him down the corridor to a doorway at the end. But she seemed to leave the prince behind as soon as she pushed the door inward, stepping into memories reborn of wafted scents of old paper, wood smoke and wax of her father's study. Morwen seldom visited this room for that very reason; the memories overwhelmed her. She breathed in the lingering aroma of sage her father used to burn to clear his mind during a complicated project, mixed with that faint whiff of scented water he wore. Hirwen used to tease him about his urbane affectations, but Minas Tirith had been his home longer than Imloth Melui. He remained unflappable. Her mother, Morwen remembered, always smelled like whatever the sun and air and earth offered up.

I'll be in the sanctuary, Randir used to say whenever he escaped to the library. If the door stood in limbo between the wall and the jamb, Morwen would climb into his lap and listen to whatever he happened to be reading. Lists of names, tomb diagrams, or odes written for the dead by their relatives, punctuated by the scratch of his pen as he took notes.

If Randir's door was shut, however, she imagined it as the entrance to a dragon's den and gave the study a wide berth. Better to face a firedrake than interrupt a scholar in the middle of a thought. On those days, she got under her mother's feet in the orchard and ate whatever the field hands gave her till her stomach ached and she got sick in the grass. She bit back a sudden grin - those stomachaches occurred more often than she ought to admit.

The presence at her back pulled Morwen into the present. She stepped out of the way to allow Prince Thengel to follow her inside the small room. It was only an antechamber of the more spacious bedroom her parents had shared. With each of his steps deeper into the room, dust motes swirled upward in the light coming in through the leaded glass.

"You may have the use of these rooms while your rider heals," she told him. She gestured to the far end of the room to a small door beside the window. "The bedroom connects to the study through that door."

"Thank you, Lady Morwen."

His tone was somber, but his eyes were sharp. They took in the room in one sweep, particularly the points of entry. But then they lingered on the floor to ceiling oak bookcases and the books stored behind leaded glass. He rested a hand on Randir's desk as if to stop himself from being transported.

"These are your books?" he asked with something like approval.

Morwen hesitated. "My father, Lord Randir's books. He was a scholar."

He turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. The shelves, the desk, the chairs. He eyed the painting of a ship at sea over the fireplace.

"I thought I heard Gladhon say Lord Randir served as a scribe for Lord Turgon."

"He did serve the Stewards in Minas Tirith during his younger days. His collection used to be more extensive, but he left many of his volumes to the Archives in his will." The expression on his face led her to add, "You may read whatever is left, if you like. They are little used these days."

His smile transfigured his face, the crags gone. "Which do you recommend?" he asked. "There are many to choose from."

Morwen felt heat rising up her throat. "I have not read very many myself," she admitted, to her own embarrassment. "My father was the family scholar. I used to listen to him read in the evenings, but…." She shrugged helplessly.

Reading had always been of utmost importance to her father, but she had never acquired the taste or the time. Randir used to say it was because she would not bother to make time. She flattered herself that books were the only point of contention in their relationship.

Prince Thengel's transfigured expression muted to something more human. Perhaps he recognized that she wasn't a kindred spirit. She felt a little sorry to disappoint him, but honestly, the books were not the strongest feature of Imloth Melui. What were books to trees and flowers?

"I understand," he said gravely. "I have had little time of late to read."

She doubted him, but said, "Because you were in Ithilien?"

He nodded. "Orcs have made it all but impossible for anyone to live in peace in that land."

"Then I hope you enjoy the respite. Lossarnach is the most beautiful land in Gondor. We are a peaceful fief…despite what you may have experienced of our trees."

"Thank you," he said. "I hope to find it as you say."

Morwen reached for the handle to shut the door behind her as she left, but stopped.

"Is there nothing else Gildis or I might bring you?"

He held up a hand. "My men and I already find ourselves greatly in your debt, Lady Morwen. I can fend for myself from here. Thank you."

Well, that relieved her ears, she thought. If he hadn't brought a concussed soldier to her door, she would have considered him far less maintenance as a guest than cousin Adrahil. Except with Adrahil, she tended to know where she stood. None of the stiff, formal exchanges.

"As you wish." Morwen closed the door behind her. "If you should need me, I will be in the orchard for the rest of the day."

The sun had fully crested the eastern ridge, casting its rays deep within the foothills by the time Morwen arrived at the orchard walls. When she slipped inside the gate, she entered a world of fragrance and light. Her sanctuary. She sucked in a breath as the light caught on the white and pink ribbons of blossoming fruit trees spilling down from the hills like streams running through fields of green. The cherry trees were columns in an arcade that Yavanna herself in the Uttermost West wouldn't turn away from easily. Morwen blinked away the blossoms blown down in the breeze.

A narrow, brick trail dissected the columns. As she wandered up the sloping line of fruit trees, Morwen imagined the tour she would give Adrahil and his new wife. Beldir had added the brick in the autumn especially for Aranel, who had lived in Minas Tirith all her life and who was by all accounts a very fine lady. Morwen didn't object to mud on her own boots, but she didn't think someone who grew up in a city made of stone would feel the same. It was one way of welcoming Adrahil's bride to the family.

It was too bad there weren't any actual cherries yet, Morwen reflected, or she would send Lady Aranel home with a basket. It wouldn't hurt her business if the newest princess of Dol Amroth developed a taste for Lossarnach cherry tarts, for example, and set the fashion for other fruited pastries or preserves in Minas Tirith. It was a mercenary motive, but what were relatives for? Her mother would be proud of her for advancing their goods that way. Her father would be appalled. Morwen would have to wait until she went to Minas Tirith herself in the summer to present Aranel with fruit.

The dogs found Morwen before she spotted the wiry, upright figure of the overseer. They danced around her until they had sniffed out every last scent on her dress and hands before scattering to discover other delights under the trees. She waved and Beldir acknowledged her with a nod before climbing a ladder. He had been the prop and pivot of the plantation since Lady Hirwen's death, for at the time Lord Randir knew more about maintaining an archive than an orchard. Morwen depended on Beldir to keep the farm going. Though mistress of Bar-en-Ferin in name, in reality she was more of an apprentice.

Morwen passed Gundor, the overseer's actual apprentice. Where she meant to learn everything she could from Beldir, he seemed to do the opposite. He had a knack for unlearning things as quickly as Beldir could teach him. Beldir was a principled man with exact ideas. That made him an impatient teacher. And though he had sound judgment in most cases, Gundor seemed to bring out his more tyrannical side. Gundor was his whipping post whenever anything went wrong. With the loss of half a family of workers, it had been a difficult few days. All the more reason to spend as much time as possible within the walls, Morwen reflected as the orchard echoed with the tune of birdsong and the thrum of saws.

Fortunately, the only trees that had suffered irrevocable damage from the storm were the ones that Beldir had already identified as too weakened by the winter cold. The rest would recover with careful pruning. The wind had carried away many of the blossoms, but the feast would be held near the bottom of the slope where the walls had protected the trees' crowns. Everything would be beautiful for her first feast as mistress of Bar-en-Ferin and they wouldn't be too hurt for fruit come harvest.

Morwen took a sip of water from the dipper in the rain barrel after the long walk. She watched a pair of robins hopping in the wet dirt at the bottom between the trees. The sharp crack of a heavy tree limb scattered the birds where Gladhon had been sawing. The man called Thurstan appeared to drag the branch to the burn pile. She felt happy to see them and less guilty about the arrangement. People needed something to do, after all.

Beldir, who was a few rows ahead of Morwen, worked steadily up the slope. He kept disappearing into the white crown of a tree, testing the branches or inspecting a spot on the bark before bobbing back up to prune another branch back.

Somewhere behind and closer to the wall, she overheard Gundor shriek, then hiss in pain.

She found him a few columns over. "You haven't lost a finger, I hope?" she said, nodding at his handsaw which now lay on the ground. He hopped from one foot to the other while cradling his hand to his chest.

"A bee stung me," he stammered. "Beldir always makes me work near the hives."

If by near the hives, he meant in the open air, then yes, Beldir always made him work near the hives.

"Stop waving your hand in the air and let me see."

Gundor stood as still as his nerves would allow, though his knees were knocking together. She found the waxy bump with the stinger protruding from it like a pin from a cushion. She ripped it out without warning. Gundor yelped before realizing it hadn't hurt any more than the initial sting.

"Pour some water over it." Morwen produced some linen strips from the deep pocket on her belt and a small box of ointment. "Why don't you follow Beldir for a bit and clean up the branches. If you get under his feet enough, I'll have a chance to catch up to him."

"Alright," he said, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt. Branches were easier to carry than to cut. He threw in a hasty, "Thank you, my lady."

Morwen took up Gundor's deserted saw and started back where he left off, in the first column of apple trees. She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and began to climb the ladder. The damaged branch hung down at an unnatural angle, nearly touching the ground. Morwen inspected the crotch where Gundor had begun to cut away the branch. She fitted the saw into the notch, reflecting how much better she preferred her area of healing to Nanneth's.

It was hard work to get the branch down, but she liked it. For the smaller branches, she used shears instead of the saw. It felt clean, somehow, clipping away at the broken tree, despite the fact that she was sweating and her hair was a frowsy mess from the wind. When her own hands started to blister without the protection of gloves, she climbed down from the ladder to clean up the sticks and branches scattered beneath the tree.

She stopped to pick at a troublesome splinter in her thumb and again regretted the loss of gloves. She'd had to lend her own to one of the hired girls who foolishly left her own out in the downpour and never returned them. Lominzel probably never would now. Morwen decided to leave the splinter in as a reminder to talk to the miller's wife about her younger daughters. While the prince's men were able workers, she doubted he would part with them for good. Come harvest, the orchard would miss the loss of one family.

Finished with her pile, Morwen rose from her stoop to take the ladder to the next tree, only to discover Prince Thengel's hand on one of the rungs. He held a book in the other.

"Oh! Prince Thengel…good morning," she stammered. "I didn't see you."

"Good afternoon," he replied.

Morwen squinted at the sun through the branches. Oh. It was hard to tell time in a tree.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said. "You were engrossed in your work."

"It wouldn't be the first time," she admitted. "How is Guthere?"

The prince smiled. It looked almost self-deprecating. "Nanneth arrived an hour ago to check on him and chased Cenhelm and I away. But he is improving well. His color has come back and we do not see any sign of infection."

Morwen smiled back, pleased with the news. "We pride ourselves in Nanneth's skill, as well as the healing properties of our herbs," she observed.

"But you yourself are not a healer?" he asked.

Morwen's lips curled in a small sign of distaste. "No. I prefer growing fruit to healing limbs. Or in this case, cutting back branches." Then she asked, "What have you and Cenhelm done to amuse yourselves?"

"Cenhelm wanted to exercise the horses, while I have elected to read from your fine library. Now I've come to make sure my men are working well."

"More then well," she said happily as she hefted the ladder to the next tree. He followed with her tools, though she had not asked him to.

"I think Beldir may bribe them to stay," she mused. "In fact, I might suggest it to him."

Prince Thengel shrugged, not very afraid. "They are too honest for that."

She climbed up, found a troublesome branch, and gestured for Prince Thengel to hand her the saw.

"Perhaps we can make them a better offer," she replied as she worked.

Lord Thengel looked around the hill, taking in the neat columns and the workers, then back at her. "You might, especially if you make for an easier task master."

"I doubt it," she said. "I expect them to work as hard as I do. Why, are you a difficult master?"

When he did not immediately reply, she glanced down at him from through the blossoms. A few had gotten in his hair. His head lolled to the side as he looked up at her, thinking.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I am merely surprised to find the kinswoman of the Prince of Dol Amroth climbing ladders and tending the fields alongside the farmhands." His tone was friendly, but wondering.

Morwen climbed down a few rungs till they were eye to eye. "You know my cousins?" she asked.

Lord Thengel nodded. "We have met. As the Steward's…" he fished around for a word, "guest, I spend the majority of my time with him when I am not in Ithilien. Your cousins serve him in council."

Morwen almost snorted. "Ah, I see."

That explained his expectations of what a woman descended from Belfalas nobility ought to look like. Morwen could almost hug herself. She compared to Prince Angelemir's family as a bluebell compared to an orchid. It didn't trouble her, but everyone had their preferences.

"You will soon discover that Lossarnach is not Dol Amroth - or even Minas Tirith. The women of those cities have the luxury of idleness while others take care of their households," she said proudly. "Not so in the backwoods of Imloth Melui. Ladies in this part of the country can't be compared to the princesses of others."

Thengel bowed his head in acquiescence or perhaps to hide a smirk. "I see that now," he replied.

Morwen decided to change the subject. "So, Nanneth has banished you from the house, you were reading, and have made sure your men are hard at work. What else will you do with your day?"

"I thought I might lend a hand here," he told her genially, holding up the clippers. "I am in want of employment."

Morwen blinked at him, feeling a mixture of anxiety and regret. The former for having to deny his request and the latter…also for having to deny his request.

Necessity had led her to cross the line into inhospitality when she commandeered the Prince's men. Allowing Prince Thengel to carry branches to the burn pile like the lowliest of menials would be unforgivable. She felt certain if her father ever haunted her, it would be for allowing something like this to happen in his household. Yet, looking at the outline of the prince's muscled arms and chest beneath the tunic he wore, she knew he could make short work of a branch that would give her more trouble. Morwen wondered if he had been sent to her as a test of character in the battle between practicality and good manners. Valar help her.

"My Lord Thengel, you know I could not possibly allow that."

His light eyebrows rose as his expression changed from genial good humor to something like stubbornness. "Even if it happens to be work you do yourself?" he challenged.

"It is my orchard and I am nobody of consequence," Morwen reminded him. Then she added, "It would be unpardonable—"

She was interrupted by a loud squeak and a shout of surprise, followed by the sound of something heavy landing on the ground. Beldir and Gundor both lay on the grass, limbs splayed out, with a ladder sandwiched between them.

"Oh, stars," she breathed, completely descending the ladder. "Gundor's gotten under foot again."

Gladhon and Thurstan appeared from the trees to help untangle the men from one another and help them to their feet.

Beldir was no poet, but he had a certain freedom of creative expression, particularly in epithets, which he applied liberally to his apprentice. A severe chop of his free hand sliced the air between them and punctuated each word.

The prince's men hovered nearby in case an intervention should be needed, but Morwen already had an idea about that.

Pointing at the volume in the prince's hand, she asked, "Which book did you chose?"

Though puzzled by her interest in the book when something more interesting was developing farther up the hill, he answered, "One I was surprised to find in a Gondorian scholar's library." He held up the spine for her to read. "It is a translation of tales out of the north. From my people, I believe. At least, we tell them in our songs, as we do not write them down. Have you read it?"

Morwen peered at the title and found it was a single, complex jumble of consonants and vowels, some unfamiliar, written in another tongue. "No, I don't believe so. What is it about?"

He turned the book around in his hands. "Adventures, mostly."

"Prince Thengel, I've already asked one very large favor of you - and I cannot possibly allow you to do the work of a servant, but I would be deeply gratified if you could read those tales to us. Could you?" she asked.

He silently appraised her. "Why?"

She glanced over at poor, shrinking Gundor. His head drooped down to his chest as he took the abuse.

"Gundor needs to be rescued," she replied. "I think he would appreciate the distraction just now."

When she looked back at Prince Thengel, he smiled at her. The difference it made on his face surprised her. For one, he hardly resembled the detached man she had encountered that morning as they discussed the exchange of men for hospitality. She wondered if he were naturally distant or if he had merely fed off of her own coolness.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I'm learning more about my hostess," he answered. "Beneath the imperiousness, you have a champion's way."

Morwen felt the telltale heat on her throat and cheeks. Imperious! She?

"I might have been afraid of you, if not for your kindness to Guthere," he told her.

Morwen stared at him, at a loss. Then a memory arose. Adrahil twitting her about cherry trees growing out of her ears or something similarly outrageous. A joke. Nobody had joked at her expense in a long time. She'd forgotten the sensation.

"You're teasing me," she said dryly.

"Maybe. Maybe not." He flipped through the pages of the book in his hand. "Now, which tale should I read?"

Morwen didn't particularly care so long as it deflected Beldir's attention away from his apprentice and gave them a moment of peace.

Prince Thengel leafed through the pages. "Perhaps a short one. Ah. This is a fragment of a longer tale." He closed his thumb in the book to mark the beginning of the story he had chosen.

"That is well," she said. "Now, you might want to stand back a moment while I put out the fire." She nodded in Beldir's direction.

That smile again. "I'll wait till it's safe."

Morwen took a bucket of water from the barrel to give them all a drink or to throw it on Beldir, depending on what the situation warranted.

"Peace, Beldir. I think we all need some lunch," she told them. "And look, Prince Thengel has arrived. He has agreed to help pass the time with a story."

Gladhon and Thurstan looked away from the spectacle and spotted Prince Thengel. Beldir looked annoyed at himself for not noticing that someone had entered the grounds and gave red-cheeked Gundor a black look for distracting him with his foolishness.

Beldir briskly removed his gloves and tucked them into his belt while he composed himself. "We may as well stop for the noon meal. Gundor, bring the baskets over and see you don't drop anything."

Gundor promptly departed to find the baskets Hareth had prepared earlier that morning. The others formed a circle on the grass beneath the trees' shade. They were joined by Nanneth's older grandsons and some of the wives and daughters of woodsmen who had joined Hardang in Ithilien but had not come back. Morwen sat down in the space between Gladhon and Nanneth's oldest grandson, but Gladhon made room for Prince Thengel to sit between them.

"What tale is it?" Gladhon asked.

"It is the story of Thunor and the suitors."

Gladhon shrugged. "Never heard of him."

"He is an old hero of the Northmen," said Thurstan.

"This book contains only the fragment of Thunor's adventure after he won a great battle," Prince Thengel explained. "This story contains his quest to reclaim his hall."

"What battle?" Nanneth's grandson asked. "With the dark lord S—?"

Everyone shushed the boy.

"Older even than that battle," the prince answered. "Thunor's enemies were the Easterlings before the tall warriors from over the sea arrived."

Gundor arrived laden with the baskets. While the food passed from person to person, Prince Thengel told of the Northmen's plight against the Wainriders. Thunor, she was able to piece together, was an ancient thane of the Northmen long before the many princes of Rhovanion were unified or Eorl the Young rode into Calenardhon.

Prince Thengel began to read Thunor's tale as the hero had awakened from a dream, discovering that he slept in an unknown wood of trees that seemed to brush the heavens with their crowns. The hollow spaces beneath the trees were as cavernous as any mead hall. It smote his heart with the memory of his own great hall in wilderland. How long had he slept and how long had the hall been bereft of its lord?

Morwen's interest wavered during a long lamentation that might have been for the hall or it might have been a lamentation for Thunor's wife. She couldn't tell. The two seemed to be one and the same in the poem. It picked up again when Thunor recalled the battle Wainriders and recounted the supernatural blizzard that had driven him apart from his companions, lost in wilderland and unable to find his way home.

After the blizzard, Thunor wandered out of reckoning. He was lost among a strange folk, ensnared by an elven enchantress who held him for years in her woodland realm where he had fallen asleep - the instance when the story began. Only when Béma appeared to him in his dreams, revealing that his hall was in danger from traitors and outsiders did the enchantment break and the way home had become clear to Thunor.

Morwen stopped the Prince. "Béma? Who is he?"

"The one called Oromë in your reckoning," Thengel translated. "The great rider and huntsman of the Valar."

"Oh." It hadn't occurred to Morwen that the Valar would have other names.

By the time Béma…or Oromë…intervened, however, twenty years had passed. When Thunor arrived at his hall, he found it filled with lords from the East, along with their households. His loyal riders were lost in the blizzard that had separated them long ago, leaving the hall barely defensible. And those men who had been left to protect the hall had traded their gold torques for the gold rings and new shields provided by these foreign lords. Rich gifts. They took to serving themselves at the expense of the Thunor's lady, feasting themselves and the lords who came as suitors to the widow - so they supposed her after twenty years with no lord. Only Thunor's wife remained loyal, for she too wore the torque, a solid ring of gold with no visible opening, he had given her on their handfasting day. But the lord had returned like a thief, not a king, to a hall that had diminished under the gluttony of so many suitors. The queen's faithfulness would matter little if he had no means to reclaim his hall and rid the place of the Eastern leeches.

Here, the prince's voice began to crack out of dryness. He coughed and Morwen brought him some water. The sun had risen high over the valley and most of the food had disappeared into contented bellies. Even Beldir had a grudgingly absorbed expression on his face. She felt vaguely torn between continuing the day's work and hearing the rest of the story.

Prince Thengel glanced up at her from the pages of the book. Closing it, he gratefully accepted the dipper of water. She sat down again beside him, ready to hear more now that things were actually happening.

"It is a long tale. You will have to wait until tomorrow to find out what happens," he said apologetically. "Else, I won't have a scrap of voice left."

Morwen pursed her lips, not liking to wait. She didn't like the idea of all those suitors badgering the queen and make nuisances of themselves, either. But she couldn't press the prince to overextend his voice. She nodded to the others who got up on legs shaky from sitting for so long in one attitude. Beldir directed them around the slope to trees that had been marked the day before.

While the others dispersed, Morwen took advantage of her position as hostess to wheedle more of the story from them.

"Couldn't Thunor just make the suitors go away?" she asked as he took another drink from the dipper. "Once they knew it was their lord?"

He lowered the dipper. "How when he had no éored to back his authority anymore? They had lusted too long after his riches and his wife and had ceased to be loyal. Revealing himself would have been suicide. "

Ah, she hadn't thought about that. It is easy to say, I'm in charge, but less easy to prove it. "So what did he do?" she asked, eyes bright.

Prince Thengel considered for a moment, perhaps weighing whether or not he should keep revealing the story to her.

"I suppose he could cut their throats in their sleep," she mused.

He grimaced. "Hardly sportsmanlike."

"It would get the job done," she countered. "And quickly."

"The Northmen would hardly consider it honorable for a hero to defeat his enemies while they were asleep," he told her with vague disapproval. "He had to win outright, but without revealing his position. So he put on a disguise and challenged the suitors to a contest for the queen's hand."

Morwen plucked at the blossoms that had fallen near her feet. "And did he beat them?"

Thengel grinned at her eagerness. "Of course, but the question is how."

"The question is," she replied after a moment's consideration, "how long did his wife have to put up with this foolishness?"

Thengel handed back the dipper and gave her an inscrutable smile. "Long enough to make it a good story. But perhaps not from the wife's perspective."

"No, not with everyone making decision for her and bidding on her."

The prince looked down at the book cover resting on his leg, thinking. "But without the suitors, there isn't much of a tale. The whole point of the story is Thunor's homecoming and the joyful reunion between the husband and wife after long travail," he told her as he tapped on the book.

Morwen shrugged. This is why she didn't much care for stories. They were rarely practical. "After twenty years, she might have done just as well without Thunor and his travail."

The Prince's stared at her for a second, then he threw his head back and laughed - deep, rolling laughs that carried over the orchard. Morwen colored, wondering what she had said that could earn so much noise. Everyone nearby looked over. She resisted the urge to cover her cheeks to hide the blush.

When the laughter subsided, Prince Thengel sighed happily. "You don't mince words. Perhaps she might have been better off running the household with a free hand…provided the suitors gave up and stopped eating such enormous dinners," Prince Thengel pointed out with a knowing expression. "But you don't seem to make much allowance for love and affection."

Oh.

Morwen supposed she sounded hard-hearted, but she hadn't meant to. And another idea occurred to her. "He can't have loved her very much if a god had to intervene to remind him of home! Thunor's wife grieved for him for twenty years, and he rendered senseless by an enchantress," she replied. "And worse, then she had to mourn all over again when he did truly die."

"Then let us hope that he outlived her," the prince answered with a shrug. "The story doesn't say."

Morwen looked for a sign that he was teasing her again. Perhaps the fresh air made him giddy after being shut up inside for two days, for he certainly seemed different. But at that moment he decided to focus on a bee hovering near his knee and she couldn't tell. Averted eyes were difficult to read.

That raised another question. She asked, "How did she know it was her husband?"

The prince's brows dipped together as he looked up at her again. "What do you mean?"

Morwen pointed to the book. "She hadn't seen him in twenty years. He must have aged and all that magic and adventure must have changed him. How did she recognize him?"

"Oh, that was simple enough," he said with a shrug. "He told her a secret only he would know."

Morwen thought there might be any number of things a man might know about his wife that no one else would. It might be imprudent to ask, but then, she didn't want to wait to find out. "What was that?"

"How to remove the torque around her neck." He held up his hand before she could ask any more questions. "You really ought to read it."

Before Morwen could reply, Beldir appeared at her elbow. "Is that Gildis coming through the trees?"

It was. Morwen stepped back in surprise. Gildis so seldom appeared in the orchard.

"Message came for you," the housekeeper said dourly once she reached them. "It arrived with the carrier who came to take the, er," she gave Morwen a cautious glance, "the item back to Arnach. Well, he gives me this letter along with the wine from Prince Adrahil."

"Adrahil sent it ahead?" Morwen asked, puzzled. Adrahil always supplied wine when he attended Lossemeren, but he never sent it ahead. She felt a premonition tickling her spine, a feeling rather too familiar for her liking.

Morwen took the letter from Gildis. It was rare that she received anything and she recognized the swan seal of Dol Amroth immediately, causing her breath to hitch in her throat as a bad memory choked her. Taking a deep breath, she told herself that if Adrahil had truly awful news, he would come in person. Like he had done last spring.

"Are you well?" Prince Thengel asked. His eyes were narrow as they scrutinized her face.

"That depends on the contents of the letter," she replied quietly.

She broke the blue wax, read the contents, and then stared at the paper in her hand. It announced that Adrahil's plans had changed suddenly on account of his wife's health - nothing to worry about. It simply ended with their apologies, they hoped to see her in Minas Tirith soon, etc., etc.

Would nothing go right this spring? Morwen quickly retracted the question in case the universe decided to answer. She had looked forward to Adrahil coming, she hadn't known how much. After all, the last time she saw Adrahil had been a year ago - when he brought her home after her father's funeral.

"Bad news?" Prince Thengel asked when she folded the letter.

Morwen schooled her expression into something more placid. "Cousin Adrahil and his wife won't be coming," she told them. "Princess Aranel isn't well."

"I knew it as soon as I saw the wine," Gildis muttered.

"A disappointment, to be sure," the Prince said.

"It is," she answered stiffly.

"And you were looking forward to showing him all the improvements you made this year," Gildis said, grousing over the news. "I can't imagine what this Princess Aranel might be suffering that a few weeks in Lossarnach's air couldn't heal."

Morwen agreed, feeling the bitter spike of disappointment. Adrahil would appreciate that she not only kept the roof from falling down around her ears, but that the plantation had flourished - a few trees aside. He knew Bar-en-Ferin almost as well as anyone outside of the valley. She felt rather proud of herself and — well, a little recognition went a long way. But what could she do? Perhaps Aranel hadn't wanted to come in the first place? But that was conjecture and Morwen knew it was unfair to her new cousin.

"Perhaps you could substitute one prince for another?" Prince Thengel suggested. "I would like to see more of your land. That is, if it won't get in the way of your preparations."

How could it when she had a rotation of his own men filling in? Without Adrahil, it simply didn't seem to matter as much what the orchard looked like.

"It is worth seeing," she answered slowly as she tucked the letter away. "I'll take you around myself. Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," he agreed.

Morwen felt mollified, though it didn't supplant the disappointment of missing the one cousin she did like.

"Oh, and I'm to tell you, my lord Prince, that Nanneth says you may tend to your wounded man again," said Gildis, bobbing respectfully like a duck.

"I've been summoned," he said to Morwen, getting up from the grass before helping her up as well.

While Prince Thengel returned to the house with Gildis to see to Guthere, Morwen distracted herself by clipping branches and planning the tour she would give. She wondered what sort of substitute Prince Thengel would make on the day of the feast.

Stars! That reminded her that she would have to deal with Halmir and Hundor without the diluting effect of Adrahil. She hadn't realized until that instant that not only had she hoped to show off her estate, she had hoped to use Adrahil and Aranel as a shield!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Lia and Thanwen for critters.


	7. Anarian's Well

Morwen walked a little ways ahead while the prince stopped to read a marker her mother had laid down when this acre of trees had been planted. It gave her a moment to let her voice rest - she'd been talking all afternoon, it felt like. Prince Thengel asked good questions and nodded in the right places, but she wondered if he had known what he'd gotten himself into when he asked to be led around her orchard. She smiled to herself and breathed in the apple blossom scented air. Not one cloud dotted the sky and she hoped the good weather would bleed into tomorrow. Beldir felt optimistic on that score.

She felt guilty for leaving Gildis and Hareth alone to oversee the housecleaning and preparations before the feast, however. But after all, she had promised Prince Thengel a tour in the name of hospitality and it did mean one less body in the way. Cenhelm remained with Guthere, who managed to sit up and demand to review the condition of his horse's care. Thurstan and Gladhon were making progress in the orchard under Beldir's guidance. Now the damage had largely been cleared away to the parts of the orchard out of sight of the pavilion and pathways where the guests would be.

Morwen had gone to sleep the night before feeling much easier about the feast. In fact, she had almost returned to the state of tranquility she remembered before the storm. Nothing could possibly go wrong that hadn't already.

Prince Thengel caught up with her. "Has this land always been in your family?" he asked. "I noticed that the oldest of the years listed on the markers don't go more than perhaps fifteen years back."

"No. Well, sort of." She thought for a moment. "My mother Hirwen, and I are the only two generations to really farm this property. The land has always belonged to the lords of Lossarnach, but then only used as a hunting lodge. What few fruit trees they had were only enough to sustain the household. My parents built it up to what it is now."

"How did Hirwen come by the land?"

"Her parents died when she was a baby and her uncle raised her. That would be Hardang's grandfather, Lord Hathol, you know. When she decided to marry my father, he agreed to lease the land to my parents since my mother refused to live in Minas Tirith where my father had served as a scribe."

"It is difficult to acclimate to a city like Minas Tirith when one is used to a rural environment," Thengel reflected.

Morwen paused. "You say that even coming from Edoras?"

"Especially coming from Edoras." He smiled dryly. "Though it is the chief settlement of Rohan, you can hardly call the rocky outcropping with its wood and thatch and grass a city compared to the likes of the many tiered Minas Tirith. Although, when the sun hits the thatch just right…" His voice trailed off and his eyes seemed to lose focus, seeing inwardly.

"How did you adjust to a larger city?" she prompted when it became apparent he had forgotten her.

Prince Thengel's expression closed a little.

"Forgive me," she said hastily. "I'm prying."

Prince Thengel's shoulders relaxed with effort, though he smiled. "No, no. I'm not used to speaking of Rohan to anyone outside of my guard, that's all. To answer your question, I acclimated because of the kindness of Lord Ecthelion and his excellent father. They were and still are very generous to me." An incredulous expression passed over his face. "Though I can't believe they expected their guest to remain so long with them."

"Is that a habit of yours, my lord?" she asked. "How long will you stay with us? I will have to let Gildis know. And should we expect more of your men? Beldir will have to build an addition."

Prince Thengel laughed. "If I stay too much longer, Ecthelion will send in his hounds to chase me out. He want me in Ithilien before long."

The mention of Ithilien reminded Morwen of Hardang, which she did not like. He must have seen it in her expression because he cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject.

"Now, how long until we reach the end of this sea of apple trees?" he asked her.

"I promise this is the last acre," Morwen told him as she led the way up the path toward the westernmost end of the orchard. She laughed as the prince gazed around in disbelief at the rows and rows of trees. Of course, there were no apples yet, but the trees were making up for it with delicate blossoms. But the ever present hum of invisible bees and the sunlight all promised future bounty.

Prince Thengel had trouble hiding the daze in his eyes. "I had no idea there were so many kinds of apples."

"How many did you think there were?"

"Three," he said, ticking them off on his fingers, "red ones, green ones, yellow ones."

She scoffed. "But didn't you wonder about the dappled skins, or the darker or lighter shades? The textures? Different species don't even taste the same."

He held up his hands, pleading ignorance. "I simply haven't given apples much thought, except how best to skin one."

She laughed again. He had been an attentive listener as she described the fruit trees for the better part of three hours. In some ways, she thought she ought to be thankful for this switch in princes. Adrahil never would have listened to her droning on for half as long.

"The apples that will grow beyond this marker are a cross specie of trees from Numenor. Those trees produced small, bitter fruit in our soil, but when a cutting from the Numenorian tree grafted with a native, it produced a lovely, sweet fruit we call the Hyarnustar Gold."

"I will be sure to mention the Hyarnustar Gold's origin in conversation when I need to impress someone at court. I didn't realize how little I knew about apple lore," he mused with a slanted, self-deprecating smile. "My education needs improving."

Morwen better recognized the signs of teasing now and left comfortable enough giving it back. "If you weren't the toast of Mithlond before, you certainly will be now." She replied. "Though I'm sure you know many things worth knowing other than apple lore. In fact, my knowledge of horses, for instance, probably matches your for apples."

"To be honest, my own knowledge of horse lore is not as complete as that of my countrymen. My education took a different turn after arriving in Gondor," he admitted wryly. "But for the sake of interest, just how many breeds do you think there are?"

Her brow wrinkled as she thought, and then a crooked smile appeared when she couldn't hold it back any longer. "Well…there are brown horses, black horses, and…white?"

"Gray." Prince Thengel grimaced. "We are evenly matched in ignorance," he said. "But what we do know seems fitting to our distinct spheres."

"You put it well, in a way that flatters us both," she said dryly as he lifted a branch for her to duck under. It was the last tree before a short lawn that led to the wall at the end of the orchard. They shook the petals out of their hair.

"Ah, we've reached orchard's end. I didn't think it possible. I completely underestimated the size of this place."

"Well, it is large enough to keep us fed, honest in paying our rent, with enough leftover to sell," she replied.

"I noticed two horses in your stables besides our own. Do you ever ride in these parts? It would save you a step."

"Sometimes," she said. "Though I don't usually have the leisure to go far from home. I ride around the plantation and to exercise our horses, but we keep them mainly for the carts we send to market."

"Where do you send your produce?" he asked politely.

Morwen wondered that he wasn't tired at the sound of her voice by now, but she appreciated the questions. "The majority of it is divided between the settlement at Arnach and Minas Tirith. A small portion will go from the port at Arnach for shipping to our agents in Pelargir where we vie with the farms in Belfalas and Lamedon for custom. Fortunately, neither of the two fiefdoms can best us for fresh produce in Minas Tirith."

"But you must compete with the farms and orchards on the Pelennor."

Morwen's sour expression showed what she thought about the quality of produce from those farmers. "Grains and legumes, mostly, which doesn't affect me," she said with her nose in the air. "The warden in the House of Healing believes the produce grown on the Pelennor is polluted by bad air from the dark lands and I agree. You won't find fresher air or cleaner water than in Lossarnach."

Prince Thengel glanced down at his boots and smiled knowingly. "I doubt the elements in Lossarnach would dare to be anything but superior in every way."

"No, indeed." She sniffed.

They stopped at the wall. There was a little arched door with an iron bolt on it.

"What is this door for?" he asked.

"For me," she told him. "The latest of my improvements."

He lifted his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue.

"I know it doesn't make sense to install a door on the opposite end of the orchard wall. It makes it easier for thieves to get in without being noticed if they can pick the lock. The orchard is my life," she confided, "but sometimes I long for trees and flowers that don't grow in tidy rows."

"That I can well understand."

"But once I've spent all morning in the orchard, I can't abide having to walk all the way back to the gate to get out and then have to walk all the way around again to get to the forest paths." She laughed at herself. "If you aren't too tired, I could show you some of the walks in the valley. There's a famous waterfall not too far, but I don't want to wear you out."

He looked offended.

She bit her cheek and he seemed to understand.

"Ah, you were giving me a way to back out politely if I wanted to be elsewhere."

She nodded. "Or if your guard wanted you back."

Prince Thengel bowed as if accepting an important invitation. "I would very much like to go on, my lady," he said a bit formally, though he smiled. "This is just the sort of holiday I wanted."

"Good," she replied. She would have thought badly of him had he decided to turn around.

"And exactly the sort of holiday to give Cenhelm a stomach ache. The trees." Prince Thengel shuddered.

Morwen grinned. "Poor man. He seems very protective."

"Nobody wants to write home that the crown prince was brained or ambushed on his watch, you see."

"Understandable." She turned around and produced a small key from the pouch hanging from her belt and unlocked the bolt.

When Thengel passed through she locked the door behind them. A thought struck her.

"Do you have many orchards in Rohan?"

"I dare say they do," he said vaguely.

"May I ask how long was it since you left?"

His brow knit together while the counted the years in his head. "Almost twenty years ago just after I turned eighteen."

She felt the blood in her cheeks run cold. "Twenty years?" Why, that made him nearly thirty-eight! He was closer in age to Hareth.

"Stars," she said.

"Were you alive then?" he asked with a wry smile.

"Of course," she said, indignantly because it was only barely true and it made her feel like a child. She would have been just learning to walk while he had come of age and left home.

"Why did you leave when you were so young?"

He stared. "You don't know?"

She shook her head. "I know very little about what happens beyond Lossarnach, let alone Rohan. All I know is that your country lies on the other side of the mountain, that it boasts of its horses, and that I will probably never see it."

"It is good to know that the people of the country to which the Rohirrim have sworn the Oath of Eorl take an active interest in Rohan," he said with irony, though there was nothing of acid in it.

She accepted the rebuke with grace. Her disinterest in the books and the world at large had been the only criticism Randir had ever had of only daughter, and even that he had managed to find endearing.

"It takes all my brains to run this place. As we have not required the Oath since my grandfather's day, you will have to forgive me for paying attention to matters nearer to home."

"You have a very small world," he observed. His tone was neutral.

"I thank the stars for that. I am not one of your great people. What would I do with a great big world?"

"Fill it with fruit trees."

She grinned, then led the way down a well-worn path into the trees. "That's a happy thought." Then more seriously, she said, "Twenty years is a long sojourn. Have you never gone back?"

"No. I came to Gondor indefinitely," was all he said. When she didn't look satisfied with that answer, he added blandly, "A lesser sentence for disrespecting the king in his hall."

"So they sent you away?" she asked, incredulous. "For that?"

He nodded, looked ill at ease. "The peace of the Mark depends upon the utmost respect and undivided loyalty to its lord. My actions - words really — had threatened to weaken the structure that even now keeps the country intact."

"But you were young when this happened. We all say foolish things at times. What could you have possibly done to bring down an entire country?" she said lightly.

He stared at her and she blushed. The question had been entirely imprudent.

"I'm sorry," she said, having put her foot in her mouth a second time. But how did people get to know one another if they couldn't ask questions without it landing in a hornet's nest?

He waved away her apology. "No matter."

Morwen began to regret not returning to the house. The prince had been so convivial it never occurred to her how little she knew about him - and how much that might make a difference. It must have shown on her face because he gave her a look that seemed half-resigned, half-defiant.

"Still, it hasn't been all bad. I have an advantage that no other prince or king of Rohan has had, a thorough knowledge of our ally - from Gondor's language, martial arts, justice system. The majority of the Rohirrim do not speak Westron, let alone the elven tongues. And how many of them can say they have traveled by ship down the Anduin or fought pirates in Pelargir? Perhaps no one since my uncles' day when the Rohirrim fought and died to defend the crossing at Poros."

"Your uncles?"

Prince Thengel nodded. "Folcred and Fastred. They were twins, King Fengel's elder brothers." He added somberly, "Folcred would have been king had he lived. Ill luck, that." He shook himself free of dark thoughts. "They are buried in a mound near Poros to remind the mercenaries from Umbar with whom they are reckoning."

Morwen, who didn't quite understand the undercurrent of Prince Thengel's musings, turned on him with renewed interest. "Did you really fight pirates?"

He smiled at her enthusiasm. "Yes, when I was younger. They've gone into hibernation these last ten years or so. Ecthelion has turned his attention almost entirely to the east now."

"Stars," she murmured. "Your life sounds like one of those adventurous tales in the book you read from yesterday."

He laughed bitterly. "Adventures don't feel like adventures when you're in them."

"No, I suppose not." Then she added, "I wasn't trying to make light of what happened in your past. It's just so unusual in families to quarrel to the point of ostracizing. Nothing like that happens in Lossarnach."

"I'd count that a blessing. Those were bitter years living under King Fengel's roof. Arriving in Gondor was like getting a new lease on life." He paused. "At least after it stopped feeling like a punishment."

"You must miss your home terribly."

"I've grown accustomed to being away."

Morwen looked around her woods with its early wildflowers and the red squirrels and imagined having to leave them behind. She wouldn't do it. Even if her father was a tyrant, nothing could induce her to leave Imloth Melui for good. Never. This was home.

"I suppose Minas Tirith must feel like home now too," she thought.

"I try not to think of it that way," he admitted. "Minas Tirith, no matter how long I live there, will always be a temporary abode. Best to remember that."

"Then you must long to go back to Rohan, to feel at home again."

His face clouded over. "I don't know. How does the poet say it? '…I mete and dole, unequal laws unto a savage race that hoard, and sleep, and know not me.'"

She looked puzzled and half afraid he would ask her to name the poet.

He smiled, a little sadly. "You asked yesterday how Thunor's wife would know him after twenty years. Well, I'm not entirely sure how well Rohan and I will recognize one another after so long."

Morwen's ears burned, recalling what she had said and mortified that he had taken it to heart in a way she could not have anticipated.

"While I live here I am a stranger in a strange land. But I fear when I return to Rohan, it won't be any different." He looked wistfully at the trees. "I remember Firienwood had trees like this. Gray-green bark, smooth to the touch, and leaves like elf ears. What are they called?"

"It is only a simple beech," she said, thankful to talk about something else. "I love them. Don't they grow anywhere else in Rohan?"

"I can't remember. Perhaps not. But then, I'd never bothered to learn their names when I was a boy as Rohan is mostly grassland."

There was a look on his face that disconcerted her, like the expression of someone who is lost. She recognized it because it was the look on her face in the mirror one morning when she realized she couldn't remember the particular timbre in her father's voice when he would wish her good morning. The sort of thing she never expected to forget but once it was gone, the loss of it left her vulnerable and drifting.

"The tree that fell on Guthere looked like these."

"The beech's roots are shallow compared to other trees," she said, rambling to cover up the moment and allow him to recover. "Our valley protects them from eastern gusts and in this climate they grow quite tall, but once they rot…"

Morwen led the prince up a switchback trail that climbed up the valley walls. The trees thinned, allowing more sunlight to reach the forest floor and the rose and blackberry bushes growing there. Prince Thengel's attention was arrested by something in the bushes. He crouched among the ferns to observe small, white flowers that grew on individual slender stems.

"What are these called?" he asked.

"Cenedril. It is said they reflect the starlight."

Instead of picking the flower to observe it then throw it away, Prince Thengel gently bent the stem toward him. "These have one more petal, but their shape reminds me of a blossom in my land called symbelminë."

"It has a pretty name." She tried it once and found the word fit comfortably on her tongue. "Does it grow on the plains or in the forests like cenedril?"

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "It grows on the barrows of the kings."

She frowned. "That seems strangely specific."

The prince shrugged. Then he pointed to a carpeting of feathery green creepers with tiny white, bell-shaped flowers. "What are these called?"

"Those are called weeds." Morwen laughed at his bemused expression.

"I was beginning to think Lossarnach was above anything as common as weeds," he said with an arch expression.

"No, indeed," she replied with her nose in the air. "Though our weeds are uncommonly pretty and fragrant."

He conceded with a bow of his head.

Morwen began to rise when suddenly she felt the pressure of his hand on her arm. When her eyes shot to his face, he held a finger to his lips. He nodded toward the line of trees. Whatever he heard, or thought he heard, she could not detect. But she remembered that he was used to moving stealthily through thick woods and listening for enemies. Her eyes strained to see through the murk beneath the canopy.

A herd of does materialized out of the shadows, wandering peacefully down the valley slope in the shadows of the thicket. One doe with her twins stepped timidly through the undergrowth on the other side of the blackberry bushes where Morwen and Thengel were crouching beside the cenedril.

"I was told the valley had a deer problem," he murmured. "Now I believe it. There must be a score here."

"Why do you think we built a wall around the orchard?" she whispered back. "Still, they are beautiful."

"And appetizing," he replied deadpan.

Morwen nudged him in the ribs without thinking. The doe stopped nibbling the ferns, turning the gentle force of her round dark eyes on them. For a moment they were frozen in a tableau. Then with a graceful leap, she hightailed away with her offspring. The herd followed suit, bounding away with a whisper of disturbed leaves and the soft pad of hooves over bracken.

"Come," she said. "We still have a ways to go."

He helped her rise when the deer had disappeared into the thicket. The trail continued to climb. Morwen pointed out the different flowers they passed. Another sound began to drown out the birdsong, and the prince stopped to listen, glancing around the forest.

"Is that a waterfall I hear?"

Morwen nodded. "We are almost there."

They climbed mossy steps cut into the rock that came out alongside a cleft in the valley wall till their legs burned with the effort. A stream of water as wide as a barn cascaded down into a dark, foaming pool below them. The mist shimmered in the air. They stopped to stare down into the pool, resting before the final climb.

At the top of the stair, Morwen stepped onto a stone platform partially suspended over the cliff. The crest of the waterfall towered above them and to the right of the platform. A well had been built into the rock alcove over a deep fissure in the mountainside. It collected the trickling runoff from the top of the falls where time had worn smaller fissures into the stone. A birch tree grew beside the wall of the well. It was covered in ribbons.

Morwen crossed the floor to the well, leaning over the lip to look down into the deep water gathered there. A few old birch leaves drifted across the rippling surface. She saw her face refracted within it. Then Prince Thengel's rippling image appeared next to hers.

"Do people come all the way up here to draw water?" he asked.

"No one draws water here," she told him. "It is a sacred well. Although that didn't stop my cousin Hundor from trying to push me in once."

"Older cousins?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, surprised. "How did you know?"

Prince Thengel leaned against the well, a sage look in his eyes. "I have two older sisters and several older cousins on my mother's side. For my fifth birthday they pushed me down the stream that runs from the foot of Meduseld. I rolled and splashed all the way down to the palisade."

Morwen gaped at him. "Weren't they worried about drowning the crown prince?"

"Not as worried as I." Then he said, "Tell me about this well."

"They say King Anorian's wife built it in his memory after he fell in the battle against the Dark Lord."

Prince Thengel stopped leaning against the stone. "Is it true?" he asked, peering down into the watery depths.

"Who can say? These stories never seem to make it into the official histories unless the women were queens. Evil cat queens like Beruthial or else hopeless tragic victims like Tar Miriel. If the rest of us are remembered for anything, it's by word of mouth."

Prince Thengel fished out a sodden leaf. "Do you want to be remembered?"

"I don't want to be forgotten," she told him. Then she shrugged. "But I don't like cats."

"Neither did Beruthiel, they say," he replied.

"Oh, to be that bad would take an awful lot of work - work I'd rather spend in my orchard." She grinned and he returned it.

Thengel approached the tree beside the well. "What are these ribbons for?"

"Memorials for loved ones. This one," she said, fingering a fresh green and white ribbon, "is for Hardang. Then she stood on her tiptoes to touch another ribbon higher in the branches. "This yellow one is for my mother - and this one for my father." She touched each one in turn, lingering over the frayed ends of a silver and blue ribbon.

She stepped back and surveyed the tree solemnly.

"I understand your father died only recently," said Thengel.

"He died almost a year ago. It was only two days after we celebrated Lossemeren. He went to Minas Tirith to stay with my cousins while he did research in the Archives. The healers say his heart seized in his sleep." She swallowed painfully. "Adrahil rode all the way back to Lossarnach to tell me."

"I'm sorry."

Her hand fluttered helplessly. "At least it wasn't a prolonged illness," she said. It sounded practiced.

He shrugged. "In my experience, the length of the illness doesn't determine the depth of grief. It sounds as though you were very close." He said the words like his tongue wasn't quite familiar with them.

"You have to understand that my father was one of the rare men who knew how to delight in other people. You didn't have to do or be anything, just exist, and he simply thought the best of you. I miss him." She shook her head and turned away from the tree.

The prince shielded his eyes before glancing up at the sky. "The sun rode high in the sky before we set out for this place and I notice it sets early in the valley."

"You are correct. We'd best start back." She led the way across the platform toward the stair. When they were back among the trees and flowers she turned back to him. "Now that you have really seen something of Imloth Melui, field and forest, perhaps you will have a better share in our celebration tomorrow."

"I look forward to it," Thengel replied politely. "How does Imloth Melui celebrate spring?"

"With feasting, drinking, and dancing."

He smiled down at her. "That sounds suitably merry."

"It's a wonderful time. The whole valley comes together." A shadow crossed over Morwen's face. She swallowed, trying to decide how to say what needed to be said.

"Are you well, Lady Morwen?" the prince asked.

"Yes." She bit her lip. "Only, well, you will meet Hardang's brothers tomorrow. I'll warn you I don't know what to expect. Their grief is still so fresh."

Prince Thengel inclined his head. "Duly noted. But let me assure you that if they are half the men Hardang was, they will conduct themselves with decorum and won't allow their grief to overshadow the festival."

Half the men Hardang was? Oh stars.

…

Thengel found Cenhelm in the study when he returned, sitting in a triangle of light coming in through the window before it sank behind the valley wall. The older man looked saintly in the light as he scribbled away at a sheet of paper.

"Well, Cenhelm, and what are you doing?"

"Good afternoon, my lord. I am faithfully writing my report to your uncle." He signed his name at the bottom and underscored it with enough force to cause the nib to screech against the paper. "Someone has to let him know you're alive every now and again."

"Oh." Thengel fended off a stab of guilt. "You aren't telling him where we are?"

Cenhelm stared up at him under the long, flyaway hairs of his eyebrows. "I swore an oath not to disclose your location until after a certain unblessed event passed. My word ought to be good enough for you."

"It is."

Cenhelm put the pen down, blotted the paper, and folded the missive before tucking it into a leather pouch. "And how did the prince enjoy his outing?"

"Just fine," he answered slowly.

"Just?"

Thengel ran his finger across a line of book spines on the nearest shelf. "Only, perhaps not wholly satisfactory. She's a singular individual. To know her, one has to know her orchard. It's an odd way to make friends."

"With all due respect, my prince," said Cenhelm, rising. "You're twice her age. Why would she want to befriend you when there's young, handsome men like Gladhon around?"

"Is that why he was so keen to work for her?" Thengel asked more sharply than he meant to sound. The idea didn't sit well with him at all. It seemed…duplicitous.

"I couldn't say. Perhaps you would learn more by observing them together, or you could ask Gladhon right out."

Thengel exhaled. "I'm certainly learning more about her by wading through all the information about the plantation. She's proud, arch, young, opinionated, nosy, limited in her knowledge of the world…"

Cenhelm's pale eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Truly? I have found Lady Morwen to be charming, compassionate, levelheaded, industrious. Beautiful even, in a dark, southern sort of way. But young? It will take years for her to amend that blemish on her character." Cenhelm shook his head with mock sadness. "It's quite the list of defects you've mentioned, my prince."

Thengel stared blankly at his guard. "Defects? I was only describing her. Besides, you didn't let me finish."

"I beg your pardon, my lord. I didn't realize we were entering her description into a bestiary."

"Alright, be sarcastic. Anyway. I doubt she'd have the patience for Gladhon. Once the poetry wears off she wouldn't find him working an hour in the orchard. She wouldn't stand for laziness. Her property isn't anything to sneeze at," Thengel mused as he passed to the other side of the desk and sat down in the seat Cenhelm vacated. "It took hours to cross the entire orchard. I am no longer surprised she pressed Gladhon and Thurstan into service. It's impressive what's she's managed to do and maintain. Her father's only been dead a year and by all accounts her kinsmen have have left her to manage for herself."

"Most impressive."

Sensing he had exhausted the topic with Cenhelm, Thengel asked, "Anything to report on Guthere?"

"Only that he's waiting for you to nurse him back to greater health. Béma help me if I have to recite one more riddle to keep him entertained. I need an airing. Maybe I'll take a look at this impressive plantation while I'm at it."

"Stretch your legs, then. Mind, you'd better pace yourself. We're all invited to this feast tomorrow so don't fill up on blossoms and scenic walks tonight."

Cenhelm bowed and left, leaving Thengel in the empty study to wonder about the day. The truth was, he knew, that he had found nothing unsatisfactory about Lady Morwen. She was all the things he described. He found her pleasant and rooted to home. It almost seemed as though the valley and the lady could not exist apart from one another. A good thing - not everyone could thrive unfettered the way he had. Or had he?

She'd gotten him talking about Rohan - trying to remember Rohan - which inevitably brought his father from out of the darker corners of his mind into the fore and that always left a bitter taste in Thengel's mouth. And so much had been forgotten in the interim. One of these days he would have to face the shadows again.

But it didn't have to be this day.

Deciding to shove those unpleasant recollections firmly back into the shadows, he picked up the book of northern tales from the corner of the desk and went to join Guthere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Thanwen for kindly reviewing the chapter and offering advice!
> 
> Thengel's quotation comes from Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem, "Ulysses."


	8. Lossemeren

Lossemeren arrived with the sound of shutters flying open. Morwen cracked a bleary eye open and saw Gildis standing over her bed in the pale glow of early morning light streaming in through the window.

"Oh no," Morwen groaned, throwing the blanket over her head.

"I can see you, my lady, with or without the blanket. Get up. I've come to wage war."

"Please Gildis…"

"I've locked the door. No one will come to your rescue and there's no use begging. I'm heartless."

"Oh stars."

Morwen threw the blanket off and sat up with a groan.

"If you let me attend to you more often it wouldn't be such a pain," Gildis groused as she rummaged in Morwen's wardrobe.

"So you've said." Morwen yawned. "But I can't see why it's any use during the rest of the year."

"Sit down at the table," Gildis ordered. "There's toast and tea. Hurry up, I've got other things to do this morning besides prune you into a semblance of femininity."

Morwen obeyed. After all, having breakfast in her room was the only enjoyable part of this annual ordeal.

"Have you seen Beldir yet?" she asked.

"Of course," said the housekeeper. "He was up before any of you. He's got Gundor and the lads bringing the wains up with the tables from the barn."

Morwen nodded, absentmindedly chewing on her bread.

"I should have looked in here sooner." Gildis shuffled the clothes around, loud in her disapproval of the offerings. "You've worn the same dress for years. You might have had a pretty saffron gown from that cloth you received from Arnach."

Morwen stared into the gaping wardrobe and yawned. "There's nothing wrong with my mother's dress."

"Do you know what's wrong with you, my lady?" said Gildis as she pulled out a faded blue gown. "You have no pride in personal appearance."

Morwen silently added that blemish on her character to her lack of scholarship. Ignorant and dowdy. She grinned at herself in the mirror on the table.

"Fortunately, you have some natural beauty. It only needs to be beaten back a bit."

Gildis spent the next hour waging war on Morwen's eyebrows and hair. She washed it, trimmed it, twisting Morwen's hair, then raking it out again with a fine-toothed comb that hit ever snag and snarl with painful disapproval.

"Here, clean your nails while I finish combing." Gildis handed Morwen a small brush with an ivory handle soaking in a dish of soapy water. She picked up the brush and studied it.

"Is this Adrahil's brush?" She couldn't think how something this fine would end up at Bar-en-Ferin unless her cousin left it behind.

"It was your father's."

"Oh. I didn't realize he cleaned beneath his nails."

Gildis harrumphed. "At least someone in this family did once."

Morwen scrubbed her hands, saying, "You see why I couldn't do this every day. It takes far too much time. Besides, I'd be in the orchard for about two seconds and all the dirt would be—"

Gildis plunged a cold, wet cloth in Morwen's ear while she had been looking down and away from the mirror.

"What are you doing?" Morwen cried, cringing from the soggy feeling.

"Cleaning you up before a cherry tree starts growing out your ear."

Morwen snatched the cloth away before a second attempt could be made. Water trickled down her wrist as she held the cloth out of Gildis's reach.

"My ears are perfectly clean and you know it." She tossed the cloth onto the table. "What's gotten into, Gildis? You're been victimizing me all morning."

Gildis started on Morwen's hair again, with her nose screwed up with displeasure. "You're the lady of the house now," she answered with a sniff. "I knew it in my head. But, well, it's seems real today. If you don't look like a lady worthy of Randir and Hirwen's memory, it won't be my fault. Now stand up and take off that dirty shift."

Morwen obeyed, sobered by the mention of her parents. Gildis gave her a new shift to put on before together they pulled the heavy fabric of the old blue dress over her head.

Morwen thought she was going to die when Gildis began cinching her into the blue dress that used to belong to her mother. The sleeves were tight on her arms.

"Stars," she groaned as she tried to move them. The fabric constricted her that she wondered if she could raise a glass to her lips. The clothes she wore around the property were loose and woven to allow the air through. This dress would never do.

"You know, I hear from my sister in Arnach that dresses aren't tied in this way anymore. It's not a bad reason to have a new dress made up," Gildis pointed out.

"It fit comfortably last year. What happened?"

"It comes from working outside with the men," Gildis huffed. "What sort of lady are you with arms like those?"

"A functional lady - which is the only sort of lady we can afford around here," Morwen wheezed. She liked her arms. They looked useful - not like Gildis's toothpicks, for instance. Although those toothpicks had done a masterful job squeezing the breath out of Morwen just then.

"Well, turn around and survey the damage," Gildis grumbled, gesturing toward the mirror.

She studied herself, wondering if she looked as pinched as she felt. Certainly this dress had fit perfectly well a year ago when she last wore it. The change of clothes beside, she couldn't see the difference between how she looked before Gildis's torture and after, except that her hair fell loose to her waist in the sort of waves you see on a lake during a gentle breeze rather than a storm. Her face had mottled over from abuse and now her ear dripped water.

"This dress is too tight," she grumbled, tugging at the bodice where it pinched her chest, such as she had.

"Stop tugging at it before you pop a seam. I don't have the time to sew you into one of the nicer bed sheets."

Morwen took one last look in the mirror. Honestly, she couldn't tell the difference in how she looked in this dress or in any other.

"Well?" she asked Gildis.

Gildis gave her a critical look over. "It'll do," she said ominously.

Morwen glanced over her shoulder in the mirror. "Do for what?"

The housekeeper pressed her lips together in a firm line.

"Gildis."

"Never mind. You get out to the orchard before your guests arrive."

…

The kitchen radiated heat from the cook fire and from the bodies vying for places at the long center table or in the cupboards and counters. Morwen pressed through to leave her plate and mug in a pot of hot water, which already contained the plates and mugs for half the household. There were a few shouts of good morning thrown her way, but mostly everyone was too busy to notice the mistress of the house. And if truth were told, Hareth was the mistress in the kitchen and Morwen was happy to leave it to the cook. She preferred to reign under the trees.

Sneaking out a back door, Morwen ran into Ioneth, who had spilled a jar of oil onto the ground. The costly oil darkened the gravel and Morwen felt a little dizzy looking at it. Ioneth had another cradled in her arm, which was in equal danger of spilling over as she leaned down to clean up the other.

"Ioneth, what are you doing?" Morwen asked as she knelt down right the jar.

"I'm supposed to bring the oil down to the boys to be put up in the lanterns," Ioneth sniffed. She had the perpetually throbbing voice of a downtrodden girl on the cusp of womanhood. Only woman was a long time in coming for the maid, Morwen thought. "They're awfully heavy."

"Here, I'll help you carry one since we're going the same way." She wanted to take both, but the girl would get in trouble with Gildis if she returned to the house without having carried out the housekeeper's orders. She had to carry the jar awkwardly in order to keep the oil away from her dress.

Ioneth beamed. "Thank you, my lady."

When they were out of earshot of the house, Ioneth walked closer to Morwen's side and whispered, "You were gone with the prince for a terrible long time yesterday."

Morwen adjusted the awkward jar in her other hand. "I suppose so."

"Do you think he's very old?"

"No."

Ioneth looked aghast at Morwen. "Truly?"

Morwen glanced down at Ioneth. "How old are you, then?"

"Fourteen," she answered, throwing back her shoulders, which only accentuated the flatness of her chest.

"Well, naturally you think he's old," Morwen reflected dryly. "You're still a child."

Ioneth pulled a face she didn't think Morwen could see. They walked on a while under in silence until they reached the birch grove. Morwen thought she saw a hint of gold hair among the green leaves. There was bower that her father had built within the grove and it looked as though someone was retreating in that direction.

"Ioneth, have you seen any of the Prince's men today?"

"No, my lady. They scare me to death, so I keep out of their way. Well, I used to be scared of the Prince, but all he does is read those stuffy, old books." Then she asked, "Weren't you bored talking to him?"

"No," said Morwen. "He's led a very interesting life, even if he does like to read. Did you know he's fought pirates?"

"Pirates! I bet he's making up stories. He's too old to fight pirates," Ioneth mused.

"I told you, he isn't old. I'm certain he doesn't tell tales. We talked about many things and I find him very pleasant." And she had enjoyed it, despite the few snags in the conversation when she asked more than she ought to have. It seemed the more Ioneth deemed it impossible for Morwen to enjoy Prince Thengel's company, the more she knew that she had.

From the way Ioneth's nose wrinkled, it seemed that a pleasant man was a death knell. "He's not handsome like Gladhon," Ioneth mused. "I don't like his foreign coloring one bit."

"Ioneth!" Morwen warned, "You're overstepping yourself."

But Ioneth remained oblivious. "Could you find him attractive? I suppose you only think of Lord Halmir, since he sends you such nice presents. I would. I like presents."

"What?"

"Hareth says Lord Halmir wants to be your sweetheart and that's why he sends you presents."

"Listen to me, Ioneth," Morwen scolded, "Hareth says quite a bit of things she shouldn't. Repeating them makes it worse."

Ioneth blinked. "Even if she's right?"

Morwen resisted the urge to upend the jar of oil on Ioneth's head. She took a deep, calming breath. "Right or wrong, it's impertinent."

"Still, I think she's right. Boys always send presents when they like a girl."

Morwen swallowed a groan. Ioneth had dogged determination, whether it be dodging chores or creating a make believe romance for Morwen. "Halmir isn't a boy. He's grown up and sensible." She crossed her fingers in the folds of her skirt as she said the last bit.

She walked a little ahead of Ioneth to prevent any more of the kitchen gossip falling on her ears. Soon, they were greeted by the mottled dogs of uncertain breeding that had caught the festival spirit and fed off the energy of the house in preparation. They loped before her down the greenway, a lane overshadowed by ancient beeches and carpeted in flowers, that led east through the plantation toward the road that served the valley or curved northwest deeper into her orchards. Morwen followed its path to the western acres where Beldir and the men were setting up for the feast.

The sun had fully crested the eastern ridge, casting its rays deep within the foothills. Morwen sucked in a breath as the light caught on the white and pink ribbons of blossoming wild cherry trees spilling down from the hills like streams running through fields of green. She allowed herself a moment longer of quiet contemplation while Ioneth trudged on ahead, no doubt imagining all the presents she would like to receive.

When the dogs barked after a rabbit, Morwen moved on. The dogs rushed ahead of her, kicking up turf and daffodils in their haste. After a quarter of a mile, the beeches fell away before a stone fence covered in moss and vines.

Morwen stepped inside and entered a world of fragrance and light. The cherry trees were columns in an arcade that Yavanna herself in the Uttermost West wouldn't turn away from easily. Morwen blinked away the blossoms blown down in the breeze.

In the early years of their marriage, Morwen's mother and father had built a raised pavilion in the midst of the cherry orchard. The dais seated the hosts and their guests of honor while the people of the house, their neighbors and often guests from Minas Tirith would picnic under the trees while the blossoms showered around them.

As she neared the pavilion she began to see the path markers and hanging lanterns. Benches had been brought down and somewhere she thought she heard the sound of wood scraping against wood, which signified the trestle tables being unloaded from Beldir's wagon.

Several of the tables had been set up already in lines along the path while the first line of trees stood like sentinels behind them. Blossoms were already scattered over the tops and carpeted the ground. They only lacked the table dressings and there would be no other ornament but the cherry petals. Nothing else was needed.

Morwen spotted Beldir as he directed Gundor, the cook's son, and other boys of the household in arranging the tables just so.

The dogs knew better than to get in Beldir's way. They tore off after a flock of blackbirds hopping around the grass in search of worms. They rose up into the air like a dark net and flew into the trees while the dogs snapped at nothing.

Beldir saw Morwen first and strode over to her side.

"What do you think?" he asked by way of greeting.

Morwen gave them all a warm smile. "You worked quickly. Everything seems to be in order—"

One of the boys shouted a curse after a table leg came down on his toe. Gladhon, who was working among the boys, came to the unfortunate boy's aid, lifting the table away and telling off the lads for being careless. Beldir's hands clenched and Morwen decided to leave them to their work - and their scolding.

Ioneth and Morwen split the work of filling the lanterns with oil to be lit when the sun went down. The task proved difficult because of her sleeves, especially among the higher lanterns. When she finished, Morwen turned down a row of trees toward the dais. Four high-backed chairs had been set up - three less than last year. There were no chairs for her father's side. One would go to Prince Thengel, her guest. Ferneth and Hardang would not appear, nor Adrahil and Randir. One for Morwen in the center. Only two chairs were left for her mother's side of the family where there had been four. She felt a pang in her chest. Hardang had been fifteen years her senior, but he had been the closest to her in friendship. He had married a woman from Arnach, Ferneth, whom Morwen had liked but didn't know all that well. She had just given birth to a son and wouldn't be coming. Hardang was dead. That left his brothers, Halmir and Hundor.

Growing up she had thought of the three brothers as the soldier, the shadow, and the spy. Hirwen favored Hardang, who was something like a much older brother to Morwen. Halmir was ten years older than she and had spent most of his time of late in Minas Tirith studying military theory and rhetoric, meaning to advance one day into the Steward's council. Halmir had been something of a favorite with her father, though Morwen had found little use for him. Hundor was only three years older than Morwen, the doomed third brother. He wore it like a badge, she thought. Her memories of him were vague glimpses of him spying on the servants or his brothers, then running off to tell tales.

Family, she thought. Odd that the relations nearest to her in proximity felt the most distant.

Feeling suddenly depressed despite the sunshine filtering through the blossoms and fresh green leaves, she went in search of something else to do. She had just made it to the gate when the dogs returned from the other side of the orchard like black and white blurs, barking madly.

Hareth lead a train of kitchen attendants, heavily burdened with hampers of food.

…

Midhel and her husband were the first guests to approach Morwen's gate. They were famous in the valley for their dyes and for spinning yarn using anything from sheep's' fleece to dogs' fur. But before Morwen could welcome Midhel, they were all rushed by a host of children of various sizes. Morwen recognized one blur of tousled hair and dirty clothes as the small boy who aided in Guthere's surgery. Nanneth the healer followed behind the brood with the littlest one hanging from a sling around her shoulders and another two toddlers holding her by the hands.

"I hope Hareth's been busy in the kitchen. Nanneth's brought half the valley to be fed. Again." Midhel huffed as she stalked off after her husband. She had but one grown son who now lived in Minas Tirith.

Nanneth grunted in response. Morwen remembered the old lady's uncanny, good hearing. The old woman garbled a greeting to Morwen and then also passed inside. Morwen wondered why she never saw any of Nanneth's children. But then, the vast quantities of grandchildren probably explained the matter.

The cottagers nearest to Bar-en-Ferin along the river began to arrive. They carried baskets of food and blankets. She made especially sure to speak to the families of beekeepers. Then the cottagers gave way to the families who lived deeper in the valley where the trees were oldest, woodcutters for generations whose ancestors had been refugees from Ithilien. These families kept to themselves, except during the harvest when the wives and children worked for Morwen in exchange for some of the bounty.

Strolling grandly behind the train of guests, the valley's infamous artist arrived, fully clothed and temporarily free of goats, with a flat, wrapped parcel tucked under his arm. With his free hand, he reached for Morwen's and kissed it. City manners, she thought.

"Be welcome, Teitherion."

"Lady Morwen, I've brought you a gift," he said, whipping the canvas out from under his arm and hastily unwrapping it for her to view. "For allowing me to sit in your orchard with my paints."

Morwen tried to make sense of the erratic brush, oily strokes. "Oh, it's a…it's…defies description," she said.

"Exactly." He beamed.

Teitherion held up the painting proudly, making sure anyone passing by could get a full view. "It's somewhat autobiographical. I'll just leave it with Gildis, shall I?"

"Yes, thank you."

Teitherion shot off in search of Gildis. Morwen waited until he was beyond earshot to exhale heavily.

Next, the farrier who traveled a circuit across Lossarnach for work appeared, smelling of horse and leather. He was followed by the watchman who guarded the greenway from dishonest peddlers and who played the part of a pinder to catch stray animals. A trapper, the rope maker, a potter and his wife. The smith, the thatcher, the draymen. Morwen made a point of welcoming the costermonger from Arnach who always gave her the best prices.

She pretended not to notice when Ioneth smuggled in a goatherd she didn't know. The miller family of unnumbered daughters had their eyes on the billier's family of troll-sized sons and their impressive axes.

"There, Othel, don't you be using any of those axes on my trees," she said. "Or on any of my guests."

The billier winked at her. "These are only ceremonial axes, my lady. Their only use is to attract custom."

The tables were filling up nicely with large bodies, small bodies. Children wrestling under tables, while their grandparents barked for their neighbor to speak up. Someone feathered a dulcimer. She could already hear the bells the dancers would put on after the meal. Wine barrels had been carted in along with hampers of food. Gildis and Hareth stood guard over these like the Argonath. Morwen noticed Teitherion hovering near Gildis's elbow with the painting nowhere in sight. Interesting, and Morwen thought she understood the sour twist on the housekeeper's lips.

The line of neighbors thinned, leaving Morwen on her own at the gate. She leaned against the iron post, one eye on the guests and the other on the road. Families who brought their own little morsels to share around brought them to a line of tables nearby. Morwen leaned against the gate, taking in all the people enjoying the sun under a shower of cherry petals. She could've stood there in perfect contentment till her legs withered beneath her, except for the feeling that she had forgotten someone.

Beneath the festival sounds and greetings of neighbors, Morwen heard a consistent, dull tattoo. She could not place the sound, but it began to build the way a distant storm's rumbling might as the winds blew it closer toward the valley. The bark of the old dog that stayed close to the barn these days could be heard echoing down the greenway.

Two riders and a procession of men tramping beneath the banner of Lossarnach appeared around a bend in the road. Everyone stopped to watch as men filed down the column of trees toward the orchard gate.

The foremost rider's coal-black curls hung below his shoulders. He sat tall in the saddle, immaculate, without a hint of creases or dirt from the road on his saffron tunic or green cloak. Even the flies didn't dare invade the picturesque figure the man and his horse created. Halmir. Morwen recognized the fabric for the same he had sent to her.

The second figure resembled a raven. Hundor. His straight black hair was pulled back in a queue, the color of his tunic black. The brothers' choice of colors, one yellow, one black, brought a wasp to Morwen's mind.

Morwen felt the dampness beneath her arms and down the back of her too-tight dress as half the household of Arnach coming to a full stop before her gate. She could see no women and no children. Only axmen. Five score at least! The same number Hardang had sent to invade Ithilien.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Thanwen and Anna for critters. :)


	9. Blossoms and Bad Company

Morwen felt like she had been turned to stone. She gaped at the great company assembled under her cousin's banner. It was a day's march from Arnach, perhaps longer with such a company. She dared not to think of what Gildis and Hareth would have to say about such a crowd. The food alone! Pain bloomed behind her eyes. Had planning the festival been so stressful for her parents?

Why hadn't Halmir sent forerunners to announce his party? Hardang had seldom brought more than a handful of his household to the feast. The discourtesy robbed her temporarily of breath.

She felt a presence at her back and turned her head slightly to see Gildis arriving as backup.

"Hail, Lady Morwen!"

Morwen and Gildis jumped as Halmir's voice boomed through the trees. Morwen tried not to cringe, half imagining the cherry blossoms showering down under the gale force of Halmir's greeting. With a flourish of his light riding cloak, he dismounted. One of the men on foot rushed forward to collect the reins. Hundor aped his older brother.

"Be welcome, kinsmen," she rejoined, after Gildis's knuckle dug into her back.

"Morwen, each year you are filled with more grace and beauty," said Halmir, perhaps reciting a line from one of his books.

Morwen blinked stupidly at her cousin, as if he had spoken to her in the gibberish of the Haradrim. She forced a tight-lipped smile onto her face after another dig from Gildis.

"Thank you," she said, dryly. "But you haven't said anything about the trees." She preferred compliments to her plantation rather than to her person. She couldn't help her looks and opinions varied, but the fruit trees spoke for themselves.

"Oh, the trees look the same every year." He chuckled indulgently. "What's there to say that hasn't been said already? Who could think of trees when you are in our presence?"

Stars! Was this over-courtesy in fashion in Minas Tirith? If so, Halmir had spent far too much time in that city and would benefit from permanent residence in Lossarnach where people spoke sensibly. Morwen exhaled slowly through her nose as a vent to her rising irritation before she turned her attention to Halmir's shadow.

"Greetings, Hundor," she said, evading a meaningless reply to Halmir's compliment.

Hundor glanced at her, nodded, then looked away, alread bored. "Morwen," he mumbled in reply.

Halmir loosened the ties of his cloak and passed the garment on to another attendant, revealing the full splendor of his tunic. With the variety of tucks and embellishments, it would have taken quite some time to finish. The fabric she had returned would not have arrived in time, which suggested to Morwen's mind that Halmir meant for them to match. She felt queasy of a sudden.

Morwen began to feel that all the eyes of Halmir's train were upon them. It distressed her. What would they do with them all?

"Never has this valley seen such a turnout from Arnach," she said. "I am a little surprised. The keep must have emptied itself out for such a simple gathering."

"A show of goodwill," said Halmir, good-humoredly, sailing right under Morwen's subtle reproach. "Our houses have too often existed side by side as indifferent neighbors."

"The better part of a day's journey is not quite side-by-side," she remarked.

Halmir gave her a condescending smile. "To one who rarely travels, it must seem like a distance. Compared to the great extent of Gondor, however, we are next door neighbors," he told her. "Let us begin a new age of kinship as if the valley walls between our lands were but little more than a garden hedge."

Morwen shared a glance with Gildis. She hadn't thought relations between the her home and Arnach were in need of repair.

"What does he mean by it?" Gildis whispered in Morwen's ear.

Morwen shrugged.

"As a pledge, we have brought gifts of wine to be shared out and goods from Arnach."

Halmir had thought of that, at least, she groused. Although too much wine and not enough meat made poor table companions. Morwen had a brief image of her guests dancing on the tables and brawling under the trees. Oh stars, she thought.

"How thoughtful," was what she said, however. "Let us find places for our new guests."

Beldir appeared before them with Gladhon and Gundor. Morwen directed Gundor to show the grooms were to lead away the horses. With the lords of Arnach temporarily distracted with their belongings, the overseer took the opportunity to speak with her.

"What does Lord Halmir mean by this?" Beldir grumbled so only their little circle could hear.

"I don't know. Something about good will between houses," she murmured, voice dry as bones. "They may tell us more once they've settled."

Beldir's frown deepened. "I don't like it."

"I'm sure none of us do," put in Gildis, "but we'll have to manage and quickly."

Beldir left with Gladhon to find a way to improvise more seating and Gildis to consult with Hareth over the food and tableware. Morwen remained at the gate with her uneasiness, which had grown since she first noticed her cousins riding down the greenway.

True, she was not on as cordial of terms with Halmir and Hundor as she had been with Hardang, and even that was a bit formal. After all, Hardang had been fifteen years her senior. Yet, it amazed her that their presence here could cast such a pall over the festival. Whatever Halmir's words of goodwill, his actions had created the opposite effect. She watched him closely as he addressed the men tasked with hauling the gifts over the long miles. To her dismay, she noticed they all carried large packs which surely contained more than wine and cheese.

…

Halmir and Hundor's gifts of wine, cheese, and expensive imported nuts were distributed among the food tables, while the crowd of men spread out among the guests.

Leaving the gate to view Beldir's progress, Morwen waded through the line of tables approaching the dais. She saw the high chairs there and remembered that she had another guest to think about. The commotion caused by her kinsmen had driven Prince Thengel and his men right out of reckoning. She turned back toward the gate and saw him only just entering with Cenhelm and Thurstan. The guardians helped support a hobbling Guthere, who looked pale but in good spirits. A conspicuous red scarf had been tied around his head. In conjunction with the scratches and bruises, he looked like a highwayman being carried to justice between two deputies.

"My lord Thengel," she called as she approached through the crush of axmen. "Gentlemen, be welcome."

Prince Thengel's eyes swept past her, over the crowd, then back again and lingered. She felt their weight and wondered at it. Perhaps he had looked for the threadbare apron dress she usually wore?

He stepped away from his men to speak with her, but Gladhon stepped between her and the prince, blocking her view.

"My lady, Beldir and I fitted up a few sawhorses with some spare planks we found in the wagon. The rest will have to sit on the ground."

"Thank you, Gladhon. You've been quite industrious."

Gladhon smiled. "Anything to help Lossemeren go as smoothly as possible for you."

Prince Thengel tapped Gladhon on the shoulder. "Guthere needs a blanket. Run and fetch it, will you?"

"Er…yes," Gladhon stammered. He bowed to Morwen. "Excuse me."

They watched Gladhon retreat through the orchard at a fast clip.

"I hope Guthere isn't suffering from cold?" she said.

Prince Thengel looked bemused. "What? Oh. No. Not terribly. It's just a precaution."

"Good. I'd hate for Guthere not to enjoy the feast after all he went through." She glanced around at the press of people and worried. "But perhaps it's a little overcrowded for a convalescent?"

"Maybe. I didn't think it would be a problem. But then you had deceived me, Lady Morwen," he said with a smile. "From your talk I assumed this would be a small community affair. Now I see half of Lossarnach assembled."

Morwen bit the inside of her cheek. "It is getting away from me somewhat," she admitted. Like a mudslide.

He looked down at her hands and belatedly she realized she was wringing them. She hid them behind her back, then blushed at her foolish behavior. But Prince Thengel glanced up at the trees, face politely blank.

"No fear," he said to the branches. Then he looked at her again and winked.

She returned his smile, feeling a rush of gratitude toward the prince. If he found the situation amusing, then perhaps it must be. He had come out the side of true disasters, and this wasn't one of them. Thank the stars Halmir and his men were only here the one night.

"The orchard looks exception today," Prince Thengel said, though he was looking at her and not the trees.

"They're the best part." Morwen couldn't help beaming proudly. "Though wait till the sun begins to go down and the lanterns are lit. Now, we'd better have you all seated. I've saved a table for your men over here near the dais. I'm afraid you'll feel a little left out, surrounded by people you don't know. Although, there is one acquaintance of yours."

Prince Thengel's head tipped to the side, curious. "Really? Who?"

"You remember the artist, Teitherion?"

Prince Thengel slewed around in alarm, as if the man were behind him. "Where?"

Morwen laughed. "Don't worry, he's tied to Gildis's apron strings over by the wine barrels."

He turned back to Morwen with an exasperated expression. "You know, I think you managed to frighten me. That's not an easy thing to do."

"I am sorry," she said without meaning it. "I thought you might want to renew the acquaintance."

"No, thank you."

"Well, then, come with me."

Beldir and Gladhon had been busy. A patchwork of blankets had been hastily spread out on the ground between precarious looking tables made of sawhorses and loose planks. Morwen motioned for the prince and his men to follow her toward a trestle table near the dais. Morwen helped pull out a high-backed chair, wrapped in garlands, placed at the table especially for Guthere. The others would share the benches on either side.

"We are so glad to see you up and about that some of the kitchen girls fitted up this seat for you," Morwen told Guthere with a warm smile. "You are one of my guests of honor, but I won't make you sit at the high table. It's a little disconcerting to have everyone staring at you," she confided.

Despite his rough appearance, the warrior blushed to his roots and seemed unable to reply as long as she smiled at him. She noticed Prince Thengel rolling his eyes.

The next table over was full of men from Arnach. Some of the Gondorians seemed to recognize Prince Thengel and his men. They called out greetings to one another and Cenhelm and Thurstan drifted over to talk, which relieved Morwen's mind somewhat. Some of the guests were enjoying the chaos, at least.

She touched Prince Thengel's arm to get his attention just as he tried take a seat on the bench next to Guthere. He turned away from the table, giving her his full attention.

"Come, we have a place for you on the dais."

Morwen could't be certain, but she thought she saw him glance at Guthere, Thurstan, and Cenhelm's places with regret. She ignored the expression. It wouldn't do to leave a prince sitting at the table while lesser men sat in places of honor. What were scholars and…and whatever it was Hundor did with his time…compared to princes?

Hareth had arranged platters of food over the high table. Her cousins had ascended the dais and were puzzling over the chairs. Thengel followed a little ways behind her as she approached.

"But where is Prince Adrahil?" Halmir asked ask she drew near. "He usually arrives early, does he not?"

"Adrahil could not attend," Morwen answered. Thengel came around her side. "But I have another guest. Prince Thengel, here are Lord Hardang's brothers, Halmir and Hundor."

"Lord Ecthelion's lieutenant," said Hundor with a trace of wonder. "My brother served with you before he died."

"The same," said Thengel gravely. "I intended to travel to Arnach to honor Lord Hardang, but I was delayed."

Halmir gave Morwen a considering look, but he did not dare to ask how she had managed to receive a foreign prince as guest and for what purpose said prince should delay his journey in a backwoods place like Imloth Melui.

"Yes," Halmir replied. "I had heard something of this." He smiled, though it wasn't exactly nice. "The courier told my steward when a certain parcel was returned to me."

Morwen swallowed, tried to say something conciliatory, then gave up.

Halmir pretended to overlook it. He addressed the prince. "We hope to have the honor of receiving you soon at Arnach. It would be a balm in our brother's absence. Would it not, Hundor?"

"A balm, my lord," Hundor replied with an ironic bow of his head, clearly mocking his brothers choice of words.

Morwen saw the prince's eyes hood over and she felt distinctly that her headache had settled in for the long haul.

"That is also my hope. But are you not perhaps joining Ecthelion in Minas Tirith after the festival?" Prince Thengel said conversationally. "He means to return to Ithilien soon."

Halmir's color changed several times. "No, Lord. I have no intentions of returning to Minas Tirith. We simply came to visit our kinswoman."

"With half of Hardang's men at arms?" Prince Thengel asked, his voice threaded with disbelief.

Morwen shifted her wait from foot to foot, uncomfortable by the sudden tension Prince Thengel's conversation had created, and uncertain of how to direct the situation.

The red in Halmir's cheeks contrasted terribly with the yellow of his tunic. "The Lord of Lossarnach's men, yes."

Prince Thengel inclined his head. "My mistake."

"My lady!" Hareth approached with a ewer of wine for the head table. "We need your help with the wine. It'll take all day to share it out to this crowd." The cook didn't bother hiding the iron notes of disapproval in her voice.

"Excuse me." Morwen ducked away feeling relieved yet guilty for leaving the prince at her kinsmen's mercy.

As she ducked away after the cook, Morwen cursed Adrahil's feeble wife for depriving her of her accustomed shield, especially as she might have lent Adrahil's support to Prince Thengel. But now she had to turn her attention to serving her guests before the blessing and hope that even without Adrahil's diplomatic presence, the tension would dissipate between her guests of honor. But, the last thing she heard was the prince addressing Halmir.

"If not now, when do you intended to join Ecthelion's men in Ithilien with this healthy show of warriors?"

Morwen hazarded a glance over her shoulder to see Halmir's response to this indirect command.

Halmir looked as if he tasted sour wine.

…

Hirwen's Lossemeren tradition had been to serve the poorest first, building her way up to the guests of honor. When questioned about this practice, she had merely said that it was the one day out of the year that the hardest working of her folk received consideration for their toil, while the privileged waited on them.

Morwen, with the help of Gildis and Hareth, poured wine for the guests, starting with the besotted goatherd and her giggling scullery maid, moving around until finally she served Halmir and Thengel, and their people. She filled glasses for Gildis and Hareth, then finally her own.

Stepping onto the dais, Morwen found the swath of faces turned toward her in expectation. Last year, her father had stood quite tall and visibly healthy in this exact spot to deliver the blessing. Morwen swallowed. For a terrible moment she forgot what she was going to say, couldn't even remember what her father used to say.

Morwen took a discrete breath and allowed her mind to relax. She felt it open and the words came back to her.

"Be welcome, my neighbors and new friends also."

They murmured back to her in kind.

"Today we thank the sun for renewed warmth and light that fills these orchards with good things. We ask a blessing over the land, for the hope of buds, and the promise of fruit to come."

Morwen raised her glass to drink the blessing of spring, though she couldn't help but feel that the breeze coming down from the mountain had a remnant of winter chill in it now. The company drank and then picnic hampers were opened and food shared out.

When she turned around to face the table, she found her three guests of honor watching her. The prince began to say something but Halmir cut him off.

"Well said, my dear," he said loud enough for the first few tables to overhear. "You have your father's gift of eloquence."

"Hardly that," she replied as she came around the table. Her father had been a trained orator in the habit of speaking for the Steward. What a ridiculous comparison.

Morwen sat down feeling the enjoyment of the feast sharply decreased. Her cousin's congeniality embarrassed her. And whatever the prince had meant to say, he seemed little inclined to repeat now.

Halmir aside, instead of enjoying the company, she worried about having enough to go around. Halmir's men had walked all day, would be starving, and would not, therefore, be leaving soon. She was hard-pressed to think of places to keep them, let alone feed them. Had Halmir thought of that?

Prince Thengel dropped a spoon, recalling her attention to the prince. He had grown strangely reserved since he had first stepped into the orchard. The genial smile disappeared behind a vague frown. She wondered what had passed between her guests in her absence.

Food would help, if she didn't allow herself to become too distracted to perform her duties as hostess. Morwen inventoried the variety of foods on the table before them. Meat pies, spring greens, jellies, cheeses. The real bounty wouldn't arrive until later in the year, but Hareth had done well.

"Pie?" Morwen offered.

"Please," Prince Thengel replied stiffly, holding out his plate while she served out a wedge minced pork in a pastry shell from the plate in front of her.

Morwen glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His face revealed nothing.

"My lord, are you well?" she murmured. "Is there anything that you lack?"

His eyes met hers and she nearly recoiled. His expression might be inscrutable, but his eyes conveyed a barely concealed rage she had not expected. He turned away sharply. Oh dear. What had Halmir done or said in her absence?

"Something has offended you," she whispered. "I hope it wasn't me."

"No," he said, as if he were swallowing bitter herbs. A little afterward he managed a gentler tone. "You are beyond reproach."

She waited for him to elaborate.

"Your cousins and I do not see eye to eye on matters of duty, that is all," he said.

Morwen tried to reply, but then she felt something warm on her left wrist - Halmir's finger. Removing her hand from the armrest to her lap, she turned sharp eyes on him.

"This is a special occasion, lady," Halmir murmured in her ear. He had to lean a good deal over the his armrest to do it.

"So you said when you arrived," she replied, leaning away from him. "And while Lossemeren is certainly my favorite time of year, I am still puzzled by this…" she waved at the company. "Grand gesture."

"Forget Lossemeren for a moment." He looked into her eyes. "Can you not guess what greater occasion there might be?"

"No," she said without trying. Morwen looked at her wine glass and had the distinct impression she wanted what was inside of it. She reached for the ewer to refill it.

"So I have doubly surprised you."

"You have," Morwen replied. A self-satisfied smile spread over his face and Morwen couldn't help adding, "Doubly surprised that Ferneth found you so indispensable during this dark time."

If the barb hit home, Halmir didn't show it, though his face did sag in belated gloom.

"We regretted the loss of two to your feast this year. First, Hardang, then my sister-in-law. For Arnach to miss it completely would be negligent," Halmir said as he held out his glass for her to refill since she already had the ewer in hand. She felt an old, childlike urge not to share. Her cousins did have a way of provoking her to behave like her lesser self.

"Doubly grievous," Hundor added blandly.

"I would have understood. Hardang was your brother, after all," she told them. Halmir looked as grieved as a fox in a warren. Hundor looked like he wanted more wine if only she would finish with the ewer.

"Naturally you would, Morwen. You always were sympathetic." Halmir swirled the wine in his glass in wistful contemplation. "You see, my sister-in-law has gone into almost complete isolation since the birth of her son, even so far as to cut us off. Ferneth communicates with one or two of her servants who manage the household. Her mourning is deep."

All the more reason for you to stay at home, Morwen thought. Ferneth had given birth to her first son a little over a week after the news of her husband's death. That had been over a month ago, but a stranger wouldn't have known it by looking at her cousins and their company.

"Is she the only one who grieves?" Morwen heard Thengel say. His profile revealed little as he stared out over the guests, but something in his tone made the fine hairs rise on her arms. "I did not think the Lord of Lossarnach would be so soon forgotten by his followers."

Morwen appreciated then her strategic, if somewhat precarious, position between the prince and her cousins. Precarious in that she had mistaken Thengel's love of books and courtesy for the sort of intelligent softness she had expected in her father. This voice belonged to Ecthelion's right-hand lieutenant, she thought. Let that teach her to make such a mistake about this soldier again.

"Not forgotten, I'm sure," she soothed, though it little pleased her to have to play the diplomat between her guests. Adrahil would have performed that task better. "You mistake my cousins. They would not wish to dampen my celebration. Lossemeren comes but once a year."

Morwen didn't dare look at Prince Thengel to see if his fury had abated at all. Her words had been a hint and a reminder to both sides. Don't spoil the day.

Halmir leaned deeply into the table to see around Morwen's shoulders, and thus, the man who had spoken to him in a manner he was not accustomed to - except by Hardang. He cleared his throat.

"We have not forgotten my honored brother, Prince Thengel. Nor do we come simply to make merry. We have come for a purpose. That is, I have."

Something in his tone caught her attention and would not let go. She stared at Halmir.

"What purpose?"

Halmir eased back into his seat, pleased to have her attention. "Well, amongst other things, to survey the management of the plantation. To view your progress and to praise it."

"Or to suggest improvement," Hundor added. "Halmir has a few ideas about that."

"Hush, Hundor," Halmir admonished. Hundor shrugged.

Morwen arched a freshly plucked eyebrow. "I think you'll find that the transition in the management of Bar-en-Ferin has gone remarkably smooth," she told them with a hint of acid in her tone.

"You've had a good start," Halmir conceded. "But you've completely overlooked the valley's potential. Granted, it has only been a year." He took a sip of wine before continuing. "Hardang had a hands-off approach as a landlord, which had its points. Yet, it would be remiss of the Lord of Lossarnach if he failed to guide a young woman - a tenant and a kinswoman no less - now that her father and mother have passed."

Morwen pushed her plate away and turned completely in her chair to face Halmir. "So, you and your men have come to help me improve the plantation?" The tone in her voice had turned icy. "You've become an expert on orchards since you've returned from Minas Tirith? A city noted for its dead tree."

Halmir looked at her in a way she was not accustomed to be looked at. She thought his eyes missed little, and yet, he saw what he wanted to see despite evidence to the contrary. In this case, she supposed he saw a helpless girl like Ioneth, begging for guidance. It made her regret the stupid dress Gildis has roped her into.

"Morwen, I've been considering how Imloth Melui might fit into a scheme of mine that goes beyond the scope of this little garden of yours."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously at the slight to her orchard. Little garden! "What scheme?" she asked.

"As you know, I have a great many friends in Minas Tirith."

"Do I know that?" she asked innocently. "How nice of you to have friends."

Halmir glowered. "Morwen, listen. As you also know, summers in Minas Tirith are hot —"

"Well, what did you expect with all that stone," she retorted, having no great opinion of Minas Tirith. "Of course—"

Halmir grasped her wrist. "Please don't interrupt. As I was saying, summers are hot and don't mention the fumes from the east."

"I won't," she grumbled, freeing her arm.

"It's all very well for the wealthy," Halmir said without hearing her. "They can sail off to Belfalas for a month or two. But what about the merchant class, for instance?"

"What about them?"

"Where can they afford to go, I ask you?"

Morwen shrugged. "That's none of my business."

"But it could be," Halmir said brightly.

"I don't comprehend you."

Halmir gave his brother a significant look, which made Morwen bristle all over.

"Look, Minas Tirith is barely a day's ride from Imloth Melui. People already travel this way to refresh themselves. With a little boost to the infrastructure, this valley could be a popular summering place for those who can't afford the luxuries of Dol Amroth."

Morwen didn't know what she found more distasteful. The traffic of strangers up and down the greenway or altering her dear valley in any way.

"What changes do you mean?" she asked suspiciously.

"Put in a proper road, for one," Hundor chimed in.

Morwen stared. "Absolutely not. You won't lay a single brick on the greenway."

"We'll leave the road alone, Hundor. It has a certain quaintness that might endear travelers," Halmir conceded. "But consider the other possibilities."

Hundor raised his glass. "And the profit."

"Profit or no, I'm sorry to say that you've wasted a journey if that was your intent," Morwen told them, returning to her former position in her seat. "Beldir has provided excellent guidance and we are quite happy with business as is. We do not need Minas Tirith's population tramping over Bar-en-Ferin."

"Don't turn your nose up at a little extra profit, Morwen. There's nothing wrong with striking out into new markets. Some would call it wise."

"I don't know about this so-called wisdom of yours, Halmir, but I know my home. This isn't a hobby farm. It takes all our resources just to keep Bar-en-Ferin running. What you envision simply isn't possible, even if it were desired."

Halmir leaned forward again, addressing Prince Thengel. "Alas, stubbornness runs in the family, you know. We all want to do just as we please."

The Prince stared stonily ahead as if he had not heard a word of the conversation between cousins. He remained silent.

Halmir's voice dropped to a whisper. "I can't say I'm wholly satisfied with what I see here," he said for Morwen's benefit only. "And I'm distressed to find that you so headstrong. To dismiss counsel is a vice of youth."

"To give advice unasked is another sign," Morwen retorted. "Sorry to disappoint your purpose for coming."

Halmir smiled then. "Oh, that is not my only reason."

"What more could you have?" Morwen rolled her eyes, realizing she had just provided Halmir the means to extend the uncomfortable conversation.

"Surely you must know after the gift I sent you."

"On the contrary, I could not puzzle out what you meant by it," she snapped. "Which is why I sent it back.

A shadow passed over Halmir's face. "So you did. And that is how I came to find out that you were harboring the exiled prince without our knowledge." He sounded displeased, but why should he be?

"I may receive my own guests," she told him frankly, "without deferring to you."

"For now, Morwen," Halmir replied. "But times change and you of all people know how suddenly."

Morwen stared ahead, temporarily robbed of speech. Certainly he meant the abrupt death of her father, if not Hardang. She felt like Halmir had dug his thumb into a bruise that refused to heal. Next year Arnach would not receive an invitation, she felt certain. Not if her cousins continued to treat her with such disrespect.

Prince Thengel cleared his throat. "I was wondering, Lady Morwen, how you manage to keep the birds from eating all the cherries once they come in."

The abrupt change in conversation temporarily derailed Morwen.

"The birds?" she asked.

"I don't know much about it," he said, "But I came across some essays on husbandry in your father's study. Do you not consider them pests?"

She exhaled softly, relieved for a distraction and pleased that the prince had exerted some control over his temper, as well. Even if it meant discussing the minutia of fruit trees.

"Years ago my mother had mulberry bushes planted near the orchard. They ripen with the cherries and the birds seem to prefer their fruit. Beldir has experimented with bird feeders, as well. We fill the feeders with seed to distract the birds from the fruit."

"How do you get any mulberries then?" he said thoughtfully. "On the Pelennor, I understand some farmers use netting to protect the trees. Have you not observed that on your travels between Arnach and Minas Tirith, Lord Halmir?"

Halmir shrugged. "Maybe."

"Do they?" Morwen frowned contemptuously. "But the bird only want food and we benefit from them, in turn. They help keep the insects down, so we supply another source of food and hope it will lessen the amount they take from our crops. I can't abide seeing them trapped in the netting. It's cruel. We never use that method here."

Prince Thengel nodded. "So, you would says it's a live and let live philosophy you practice in your own fields in Lossarnach?"

"Certainly at Ber-en-Ferin."

"Is netting used anywhere in Lossarnach?" Prince Thengel asked Halmir.

"How should I know?" Halmir replied sullenly. "I don't canvas every orchard in the fief. Farmers are free to do as they please."

Only belatedly did Morwen consider that Prince Thengel might have been making a point. She poured him the rest of the wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Thanwen and Anna for advice and critters.


	10. Halmir

Thengel sliced through another sliver of roasted fowl. His plate was covered in a layer of mince. Very fine, nearly a paste. He found the repetitive motion of cutting the meat soothing. A technique his uncle Oswin had first taught him as a boy whenever Fengel King plagued him. Not that it had worked in his full-blooded youth, but age had curbed his impulses somewhat. At least, it tempered his annoyance thanks to the jaw-rattling of Lady Morwen's cousins.

Béma, grant him patience and other work for his knife. The dishes lining the table were bare.

"The victuals are about gone everywhere," Thengel overheard Hareth whisper in Morwen's ear. "There's still some wine about, though."

"Tell Beldir and the boys to start packing away the tables, then," Morwen murmured back.

Hareth nodded and climbed down the back of the dais the same way she'd come up. Guests had already began to mill around, roving from table to table to greet a neighbor or suggest a walk through the marked pathways beneath the white and pink canopy. Thengel watched with half-interest until one of the men in the livery of Lossarnach approached the dais. He walked with a pronounced limp, little aided over the springy, uneven turf by a walking stick.

A genuine smile broke over Thengel's face as he clasped the man by the wrist.

"Well met, my friend."

"Greetings, Lord Thengel." The soldier bowed in Morwen's direction. "Greetings, my lady."

"Lady Morwen, this is Beleg. One of Hardang's best."

"Not so or else things might have gone otherwise," Beleg said gravely. "The filth got me in one of their dirty iron jaws and that was that." He motioned with his hands, resembling a bear trap snapping shut.

"I'm sorry to see you were injured," she said smoothly, though her cheeks looked paler. "I did not realize those creatures used such devices."

Beleg took a deep breath, as if to begin an explanation, but Thengel cleared his throat. "Not often, my lady," was all Thengel would say. A cherry festival wasn't the place for a lecture on uruk warcraft.

Beleg said graciously, "You have my thanks for this splendid feast. I have long wished to see Imloth Melui with my own eyes."

Morwen inclined her head graciously. "You are welcome, Beleg. I hope it is worth the long journey."

"Oh, certainly." Turning back to Thengel, he said, "Some of the lads were hoping you'd join them for a glass of wine. My lady won't mind if we steal away an old comrade?"

"Of course not."

Morwen's smile didn't quite meet her eyes. Thengel hesitated. He wanted to leave the dais and the tension behind him, but that meant leaving his hostess alone to be bullied by her cousins. Béma, he hated bullies.

Then his first memory of Morwen was of a young, imperious woman treading toward him across the length of her hall. In a moment's clarity, he realized she could probably defend herself quite well and maybe his presence hindered it. She would be polite to her relations in his presence, after all. Alone, she could let the claws come out. So he thanked Morwen and followed Beleg to the place where a host of familiar campaigners had joined his guard.

…

"Was that all the food?" Hundor asked, looking askance at the empty platters.

Morwen squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled. "There are five score more mouths this year, Hundor. Uninvited, I might add. I can't help it if all the foods ran out within the first hour."

Hundor pushed his empty plate away and grabbed a ewer. "I'm going to look for more wine."

Left alone with Halmir, Morwen didn't bother to keep the conversation going. She found her eyes trailing over the faces, strange and familiar, until they found Prince Thengel in the crowd. Maybe twenty dark-haired men of Lossarnach piled around him, some standing, some overflowing the benches. A bright spot in the group revealed the garlanded chair where Guthere had fallen asleep.

The conversation seemed to flow between Prince Thengel and Beleg. The faces of the men were serious, intent on whatever the prince had to say. She wondered what that might be? Remembering past skirmishes maybe? Did soldiers like to talk about battles or was that too grim? She had no idea and felt half-tempted to join them just to find out.

"Do they use bear traps?" she asked Halmir suddenly, thinking of Beleg's injury. "The orcs, I mean."

"How should I know?" Halmir said.

She turned surprised gray eyes on him. "Well, you've studied, haven't you?" It wasn't as though his father had attended to Hardang's training alone.

Halmir sneered. "It hasn't come up in my lectures. Besides, why would someone like you need to know what orcs do? I don't expect Lord Ecthelion will be recruiting women any time soon."

"I'm only curious. But since we're on the subject of your studies," Morwen said with deep intonation. "I'm surprised by your sudden interest in Bar-en-Ferin. After all, I expect you'll be returning to Minas Tirith soon."

"No, I intend to remain in Lossarnach indefinitely." He sat up straighter. "I'm the head of the family now."

"That's a gloomy thought," Morwen murmured under her breath.

She swallowed the last mouthful of wine in her cup, then listlessly returned the empty cup to the table. A breeze blew soft petals onto the cloth. One petal, a soft white tear, landed in the cup. Morwen smiled as it soaked up a drop of the dark wine, feeling oddly cheered by the veins of new color spreading along the petal. She would get up soon and mingle with her neighbors the way her father had done. Maybe she would dance?

Morwen scooted her chair backward to get out from the table, but Halmir's voice stopped her.

"By the by, what do you make of this guest of yours?"

"What do you mean?"

Halmir lazily tapped his knife on the table. "Do you find him agreeable?"

"I notice you don't," she evaded.

Halmir sniffed. "He thinks that because he's a prince he can lord it over others. But what can you expect from a man with a reputation for rebellion and spleen."

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't you heard about him?" Halmir smiled beneath an arched brow. "What he did?"

Morwen uncomfortably recalled the walk to Anarion's well. "He told me something of his history."

"Did he?" Halmir asked archly. "And what did he have to say?"

"You can hardly expect me to divulge a private conversation."

"I'm not asking you to gossip, Morwen. But how else will you know if he told the truth?"

Morwen's face burned. "I have no reason to suspect that he lied."

Halmir laughed unpleasantly. "Morwen, you can't take strangers at their word, especially given what his motives might be."

"What motives?"

Halmir stabbed the air with the knife. "For staying here, of course."

"He needed help for his wounded soldier," she told him. "He never had any intention of staying at Bar-en-Ferin. I doubt he ever knew about it."

"So he says."

"I saw the wound myself. Guthere was gravely injured."

"Perhaps." Then he gave her a calculating look. "Do you honestly believe he didn't know a thing about Imloth Melui when he arrived? I'm sure Hardang mentioned his young, unprotected cousin at some point."

"Unprotected?" Morwen scoffed.

"Would you like me to say orphan?" Halmir retorted. Morwen gaped at him, stung. "At least, it doesn't hurt to be wary of those who tell their own tales. In fact, I'm not comfortable with you being alone here with him. Adrahil would agree to the unsuitability of this arrangement."

Morwen opened her mouth to protest, but Halmir silenced her with a wave of his hand.

"I care about you, Morwen. Of course I'm concerned," he said, as if divining her thoughts.

"In the twenty years of my life, you have never expressed concern before now, so forgive me for being surprised."

After an uncomfortable pause, he turned fully in her direction, staring her down with eyes she was surprised to find looked vaguely tearful. "How can you say that?"

Why was he going to cry? Why? She was the orphan, after all. Morwen wanted to throw a spoon at him for calling her that. The word felt impersonal and pathetic. It wasn't the sort of word one threw at someone casually.

"Halmir, where was this concern last year when my father died?" she challenged. "Adrahil rode down immediately to be with me while you stayed behind in Minas Tirith. "

"Someone had to wait with the body," he retorted.

"Yes, and from what I heard, it was Adrahil's steward."

Halmir looked temporarily trumped. He drank his wine. "Everyone knows Hardang and Adrahil were your favorites. I can't help it if you haven't noticed me," he said sadly. "I had hoped one day you would count me a friend the way you did Adrahil…but I suppose it's foolish…"

Morwen blinked, then pressed a hand to her throat. "You think I excluded you?"

"I may not have Adrahil's easy way," he said with a toss of his curls, "but I've only ever wanted to be friends with you."

Morwen scraped all her childhood memories together trying to find any shred of evidence that corroborated with this stunning revelation. She couldn't think of a single instance.

"I've tried lately to show you that, but you've rebuffed my efforts." He jerked one of his cuffs straighter around his wrist, directing Morwen's attention toward the blinding yellow roses.

The cloth. Stars. Maybe she should have appeased him and turned it into a table runner or something rather than send it back.

Morwen sighed. "I am sorry if I've hurt your feelings, Halmir, but I never realized you wanted to be friends."

"Never realized? I am honestly shocked," he went on, "I suppose it's too much to hope now that you might overcome your prejudices."

Prejudices? Morwen pinched the bridge of her nose as the conversation spiraled downward. Halmir's actions and words confounded and confused her. How had he managed to turn the tables on her?

"There's a simple way to start if we're to be friends," she said. "First, I don't need you to worry about me, the orchard, or about my guests. I don't need help and Prince Thengel has proven himself to be honorable and courteous." Then to drive the point home, she added. "Two of his men are helping in the orchard, in fact."

Halmir jumped in his seat. "What? How long?"

"Only a few days. Prince Thengel himself offered to lend a hand, which of course I couldn't allow. But they were a wonderful help after the storm." Morwen warmed just thinking about it. "I only wish they would stay on indefinitely."

Morwen failed to notice a look of mortification spread over Halmir's face. Surely that was the look of a man who finally realized the difference between the sort of help she needed and wanted versus the silly notions he had offered.

"You would like that, would you? Has the prince expressed a similar wish?"

"Not really. Though he hasn't set a date for his departure and his men seem content to let Guthere heal as much as possible before leaving."

Halmir's eyes narrowed, losing that moist aspect that had appalled Morwen. "I see," he said.

"I certainly hope so," she said optimistically as she rose. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to light the lanterns before it's too dark to find them in the branches." She swallowed, hoping for a conciliatory tack, "But I will think about what you've said and perhaps try to make an effort to…to get along with you better."

Halmir was too lost in thought to hear her. A worried crease marred the skin between his brows and he absentmindedly twiddled one of his waxed curls between his fingers.

…

When Thengel and Beleg arrived at the trestle table, he could scarcely move for the sea of hands reaching out to grasp his own. His guard formed a semi-circle at the end of the table. Cenhelm and Thurstan flanking a snoring Guthere. He nodded at Cenhelm who had given him a worried look when he caught his eye.

Thengel waved his hand in a semi-circle, indicating the swath of ground below the cherry trees. "I don't recognize most of these men who have come with you."

"You wouldn't," Beleg told him as he handed Thengel a cup of wine from their supply. "Most have never left the fief."

"Or the farm," another soldier standing behind Guthere piped in darkly. Adan, Thengel recalled. His head looked misshapen where an ear had been hacked or bitten off. "But Lord Halmir trussed them up in uniform anyway. As if these boys were trained and all."

"Not trained?" Thurstan parroted, aghast. "What's their use, then?"

Guthere snorted, waking himself up. He blinked blearily at the crowd.

"No, these are a bunch of toy soldiers," Beleg muttered, "To be lined up on display, then forgotten. We've had no word about returning to the border."

Thengel glanced at the table. He noticed Lord Hundor leaving it. Halmir and Morwen were engaged in spotty conversation, but he didn't see any sign that she was in distress.

"Why would Halmir dress up farm lads in soldiers' garb?" Thengel asked. After all, as Beleg had suggested, and Thengel knew, the lordling had made his intentions to avoid Ithilien clear.

"Well, that's more than we know."

"You've never been to this feast?" Thengel asked Beleg. When the guard nodded, he continued, "But do you know if this was customary to bring a company of armed men?"

Beleg's forehead wrinkled. "No, usually only Lord Hardang and his brothers were invited, and then Lady Ferneth once they were married. A few guards went along, of course."

"So, this is unusual for you?"

"What isn't nowadays?" said Adan. "It tell you, life at the garth has taken a strange turn since Lord Hardang fell."

"What do you mean?" Cenhelm asked.

"Well, it's like this. Lord Hardang died, but he's got this new baby boy whom he never laid eyes on. Rightfully, little Forlong's the new lord," said Beleg. "Is he not?"

"But he's an infant," another soldier chimed in.

"Right. So Lord Halmir comes back from Minas Tirith," Belge's voice dropped to a low rumble, "and he starts strutting around the garth like he's one of the sea kings. Well, we've been waiting for Lady Ferneth to come around and set him down a peg, only she hasn't."

Thengel asked, "Would you say that's odd behavior for your mistress?"

"Yes," said Adan. "That's exactly what we can't understand. She's a bear normally. In a fight, I'd say Lord Hardang would've chosen her for a second over any man."

"A bear, hmm?" Thengel tried to recall if Hardang ever used that descriptor for his wife.

"Sure. Within the first fortnight of her marriage, she had the garth cowed, Halmir and Hundor included." Adan leaned into the table and murmured so quietly everyone had to lean in to hear. "Some say she's the reason Halmir took a scholarly bent and rode off to Minas Tirith.

"We haven't seen her since Forlong's name day. Only a few of the people she brought from her father's household and the steward hear a word from her."

Cenhelm's eyebrows rose up to his hairline. "Not even Lord Halmir or his brother?"

Adan shrugged. "Not that we know of."

Thengel crossed his arms. "So Halmir has set himself up as regent. That's a lot of…responsibility."

"A baby can't lord it over a fief, can he?" said Beleg. "He won't be riding into Ithilien any time soon, neither. I guess Lord Halmir's next in line then until little Forlong comes of age."

"What about his mother?" Thengel suggested.

"Well, if she'd come out of hiding," Beleg said bitterly, "then I guess she'd deal for her son just as well."

"A woman can't run a fief." One soldier harrumphed.

Thengel held up his hand, not about to tell the men of Arnach their own business. While they exchanged outlooks on the matter, he delved into his own thoughts. The conversation shifted to news about comrades who had sustained worse injuries and hadn't been picked to walk the long road to Imloth Melui. They ribbed Guthere for getting in the way of a tree when he'd made it out of Ithilien unscathed. The warrior chuckled and grimaced in turn, saying,

"Laugh all you want, boys, but the kitchen girls bring me all the food I can stomach and Lady Morwen herself shows up with flowers for my bedside. They tell me she even held my hand while the old crone knocked a hole in my skull. Didn't she, my lord?"

Thengel nodded. "She did." Well, for some of it. He almost smiled at how stubborn she'd been about staying for the surgery, yet so sickened by it.

"She crooned your name like the wee baby you are." Thurstan dug an elbow into Guthere's side. "Now whenever she comes by he turns red as a tomato."

Cenhelm cleared his throat. "Keep it respectful. For all you know she's standing behind you."

Guthere and Thurstan shared stricken glances before looking over their shoulders.

Thengel's eyes wandered back to the dais where he had last seen Morwen. Hundor had returned to the table. Halmir who was helping himself to more wine from a new ewer. Where had Morwen gone? Not that it mattered. It was her orchard, but he remembered how the crowd had made her uneasy.

"Any plans to return to Ithilien yourself, my lord?" Beleg asked, drawing Thengel's attention back to the table.

"If I had my way, I'd be there…" he meant to say now, but something checked him. He settled for, "Soon."

"We feel the same," said Beleg. "Better than sitting around while the moss grows over us, but our fearless leader doesn't feel the same."

Thengel clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll put in a word for you boys with Ecthelion when I see him next."

"May I ask when that might be?" said Adan, hopeful.

The chatter around the table stopped. Thengel's men sat stiff and silent.

Thengel cleared his throat. "Well, not for a little while longer. "

Beleg and Adan exchanged mutual looks of confusion. "Is Minas Tirith that bad in the spring?"

"Only for the prince," Cenhelm muttered.

Thengel rolled his eyes.

Then he noticed that the younger brother had deserted the dais again.

…

It was early yet to be lighting the lamps, but Morwen saw an opportunity to be alone and she snatched it. She had observed before that if one walked with purpose and an arm full of something, people tended not to interrupt. Guests melted out of her way without a word. Some nodded. Most scarcely seemed to notice the lady of the house, but then, there never had been much of a distinction between the lady and the serving women of Bar-en-Ferin.

Armed with a box of long matches, she'd skirted the perimeter of the marked grounds. Halfway through the round, she'd come across a lantern swinging in a breeze. The wick had fallen into the well at the bottom. Morwen had to get a ladder forgotten against the stone wall in order to bring the lantern down to where she could fish out the wick.

When she climbed halfway up the ladder to replace the lantern on its limb, her eyes fell upon a dreaded sight. A seeping layer of green and yellow gum staining the bark. The canker oozed where the branch had been removed. They'd been so preoccupied with the damaged at the top of the slope, she hadn't spent enough time in the cherries. Botheration. Where was Beldir? She could see that the cut had not been clean enough, exposing the limb to disease. If the tools hadn't been cleaned between trimmings, the other trees might also have cankers. Beldir would know.

Morwen descended the ladder, barely mindful of the long skirt she wore. Halfway down, she lost her footing on a rung. Heart in her throat, she slid the rest of the way, landing in someone's arms before both landed on the grass

The arm pinned under her waist wore a black cuff.

"Hundor," she sputtered. A confused moment passed as they tried to untangle limbs. "What were you doing sneaking up behind me?"

"Lucky for you, I did. Ow— mind your elbows."

When she turned to face him, she noted the high color on his cheeks. But then, hers felt rather hot as well. She pushed herself off the ground, though the unyielding fabric of her bodice made it difficult. Hundor busied himself swiping off grass and cherry blossoms from his stark garb.

"Look, I came to say you'd better follow—"

"Have you seen Beldir?" Morwen interrupted.

Hundor blinked. "No, but…"

"I need to find him. Look, do you think these leaves look a little too yellow?" She made him look upward.

"I don't know…"

"Not there. Just on this branch?"

"Morwen, would you listen? It's important."

He sounded nearly sincere, but then, the last time Morwen believed him she'd nearly landed in Anorian's bottomless well.

"So is this if I don't take care of it."

"It's about the orchard, you know."

Morwen held up her hands. "Hundor, if we are to maintain the peace, speak no more to me of improvements or guests."

A contemptuous, sly twisted over Hundor's face. Whatever original motive had led him to seek her, vanished. She hadn't given him the attention he wanted, then snapped at him, so now he was going to make it difficult in order to sooth his own nerves. Hundor was always predictable. Morwen sighed.

"I promise that isn't my immediate purpose," he said casualy as he picked off an invisible cherry blossom. "Just thought I'd mention Halmir's had too much to drink."

She gave him a sharp look. "So?"

"Well, he's a blabber when he's drunk, you know."

Morwen didn't follow Hundor's line of reasoning. She gripped the side of the ladder, ready to mount again to inspect her sick tree. "I'm not responsible for Halmir's behavior," was all she said.

"No, but it is your dais and they are your guests." Hundor shrugged. The corner of his lip lifted with hidden knowledge. "Halmir could say anything."

Morwen let go of her held on the ladder. "What is he saying?"

Hundor shrugged again. Morwen bit back an aggravated retort, all too familiar with her cousin. Hundor must have his games and if that meant feigning ignorance to draw it out, so be it.

"Oh very well," she groused. "Lead the way."

…

Halmir perched on the lip of the dais, refilling his cup with the rich red wine sent by Adrahil. His cheeks were apple red, and the aura gleaming around his eyes as they swept the crowd made Morwen cringe.

He cleared his throat. A few people turned to look, saw only a man deep in his cups and so gave their attention back to their neighbors.

Morwen approached the dais slowly, Hundor trailing behind in her shadow.

"Halmir."

He looked down at her. "Oh, Hundor found you. Hiding in the trees, I told him. Look, I have poured you a drink." He pointed vaguely toward her cup.

"I've had enough wine for today," Morwen answered, "and so have you, I think."

With his free hand, Halmir swatted at stray curls that had fallen over his shoulder. "No." He looked down at his glass. "Well, it's beside the point, anyway."

She mounted the first step. "Why don't you come on a walk with Hundor and me?" She felt like a parent trying to talk a small child down from a tree after it had climbed too high. "I'll just help you down, shall I?"

"Help me?" Halmir laughed. He sounded surprisingly sober. "Morwen, I came to help you."

"What do you mean?" she asked dryly, feeling like the day had begun to repeat itself.

"I'm going to take care of you. Someone's got to." Halmir sidled down the length of the dais toward the center, away from Morwen.

Hundor tapped her on the shoulder. He whispered, "There he goes."

"Halmir!" she called. The nearest guests stared at her. "It's nothing…nothing to see…" she told them. When Halmir still didn't acknowledge her, she followed after him.

Then, calling on the attention of the revelers, he said, "Yes, I have come for a purpose," as if to bolster himself. He poured himself another very generous helping of wine.

"I love this part," Hundor crooned. "It's always entertaining after his…how many cups was it?" He began ticking off the amount of wine on his fingers.

Alarmed, Morwen snatched the glass out of Halmir's hand. The stem felt slick with sweat and the wine sloshed out over Morwen's hand, trickling like red vines down her wrist.

"Pardon, neighbors," Halmir called, "your attention please!"

"Halmir, don't you dare!" Morwen hissed.

…

"What's that grand mop of hair up to?" Cenhelm asked. He tapped on Thengel's shoulder and pointed toward the dais.

"Who?" Thengel glanced up just as Lady Morwen, looking quite white, snatched a cup out of her cousin's hand.

"Listen, everyone," Halmir shouted. "Listen!"

Oh, Béma, Thengel cringed.

The voices petered out the way the hissing and snapping of oil in a frying pan fizzled out when removed from heat. The dancers were the last to fall quiet. Everyone turned toward the dais, blank or bemused expressions on their faces. They were used to one speech at the feast. Two seemed gratuitous.

Halmir's over-bright gaze swept the upturned faces of his audience with satisfaction. "Today is more than a feast day. It is a celebration of the renewal of spring, but also of unity and goodwill. And I flatter myself…"

Halmir seemed only then to notice that the wine glass had disappeared from his hand. The lordling stared at his empty fingers stupidly.

"Looks stewed," Thurstan observed.

Yes, Halmir did look like he'd partaken of a little too much wine. Even from a distance, Halmir's eyes had an over-bright eagerness, collared below by reddened cheeks. Thengel rose slowly from the bench, considering whether or not to tackle him or wait to see if someone closer with any sense would do it first. But then Halmir found his train of thought again.

"Er…I flatter myself that this noble household and that of Arnach will be be united all the more, for today I declare my intention to make your lady my fief…er, wife."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy! Thanks to Thanwen, Gythja, Lia, and Anna for critters.


	11. Conspiracy of Cousins

Morwen burned, but it was the cold burn of frost on flesh. When the spasmodic applause and chatter petered out Halmir coughed. His bleary eyes slid sideways toward the onlookers than back to Morwen.

Morwen grasped the wine cup so tightly the inlayed glass diamonds around the stem left a red pattern along her fingers.

Halmir coughed again. "Well, what do you say, Morwen?"

Some of the crowd strained their ears, not wanting to miss a spectacle when it presented itself. Morwen scraped her brain for a crumb of an idea to respond to Halmir's farcical announcement. But no words came to navigate the tricky position in which he had placed her. To answer the way she wanted would be impolitic. To answer the way he wished, impossible.

At a moment's inspiration, she let the cup slip from her fingers. It hit the dais. The wine gushed upward, then left a dark splash of red on the front panel of her dress.

The effect was instantaneous.

Gildis rushed forward with a cloth to try to save the dress, kneeling on the dais between Morwen and Halmir. A handful of Morwen's neighbor women followed, crowding Halmir out. They created a wall of dresses for Morwen to hide behind, besides further confusing her drunken cousin.

Laughter bubbled up in the crowd, which stung Morwen's pride. Yet temporary ridicule felt better than a forced answer in front of ten score guests.

"Gildis, I need to get out of here," she whispered to the housekeeper who had squeezed the excess wine from her skirt into the rag.

The woman clucked their tongues or moaned when Gildis pulled away the the rag to reveal the stains. Morwen moaned too, but not over the dress.

Gildis shook her head. "Come, my lady," she said loudly enough for the nearest guests to hear. "I'll help you into a different dress."

Unable to help it, Morwen glanced around for Halmir, but he had disappeared from the dais. She couldn't see him anywhere. But rather than feel relieved, her anxiety spiked. If a deranged animal wandered into one's yard, best to keep it in sight.

When they passed through the gate, out of earshot, Morwen stopped Gildis.

"What happened?"

Gildis looked at Morwen like she was addled.

"Lord Halmir intends to marry you. He isn't one for asking, apparently."

Morwen blinked to hear it put so starkly. She cupped her forehead in her hand. "I thought so, but I'm feeling a little dazed."

"And no wonder," Gildis grumbled. "At least you thought of a clever diversion, though it's cost you that front panel. Come."

Morwen followed her down the path and almost broke into a run when she heard footsteps pursuing them. Unable to help herself, she turned to find that only Ioneth following at a shuffling run.

"My lady," the plump girl puffed as she came alongside Morwen, "Beldir sent me after you to make sure you're well. You looked fit to pass out when you dropped the wine."

So it hadn't looked deliberate to anyone but Gildis, Morwen hoped.

"I'll be alright," Morwen assured her. "Where did Halmir go? Did you see?"

"Did you miss Lord Thengel come up behind him?"

Morwen winced. "What did he do?"

"He hooked Lord Halmir's elbow and dragged him behind the dais."

"Did he?" she asked weakly. Morwen had only been aware of the guests as a whole, forgotten the individuals in the few seconds it had taken for Halmir to derail the feast. "And then what?"

Ioneth shrugged. "Well, everyone laughed because Lord Halmir sort of hiccuped really loudly when the prince pulled him off the step. Half the lads followed them around. I'll make Seron — erm, he's my…my…"

"Yes?" Gildis snapped.

Ioneth blushed. "Well, I'll make him tell me what he saw."

"Why don't you go and ask him now?" Gildis said sharply. "Make yourself useful."

"I have to go back to tell Beldir you're all right anyhow," Ioneth said to Morwen, ignoring the housekeeper.

They watched her kick up gravel as she ran.

…

When they made it back to the empty house, Gildis helped Morwen undress and find a clean, but understated alternative.

"It's a shame, this was the last of your mother's good clothes," Gildis said as she folded up the stained dress.

Morwen thought her mother would forgive her, given the circumstances.

"What will you tell Lord Halmir?"

"I'm hoping once he's sober he'll forget."

"Men drink to forget and grow sober to remember."

"Then let's hope that he will also remember decorum and sensibility. And silence. Underrated virtues, in my opinion," Morwen muttered.

"Oh, he's made it public, Morwen. You will have to answer."

Morwen knew in her heart that Gildis was right. Looking back, Halmir had spent the entire afternoon building up to that announcement. And even longer - from the cloth to accepting the invitation despite mourning his brother's death.

"If only he fell off the dais onto his face," Morwen mused. "And split his lip. Nanneth could stitch his mouth closed."

Gildis sniffed disapprovingly. "Don't go wishing things on people you wouldn't wish for yourself."

Morwen sat at the table and rubbed her eyes. "It doesn't make any sense, Gildis."

Gildis stood stiffly by the door, the dress cradled in her arms. "It makes perfect sense," she replied.

Morwen gaped at her.

The housekeeper's wiry eyebrow lifted. "From a certain point of view."

"Did you realize what was happening?"

Gildis pressed her lips very thin.

"Gildis."

The older woman picked invisible lint off the dress in her arms. "I thought it would be Lord Hundor who would come forward. Lord Halmir had settled in Minas Tirith and would certainly find a wife there. And he might have, but for Lord Hardang's death." Gildis sighed. "It certainly upsets affairs."

Yes, it had. Stars! Morwen tried to imagine her eldest cousin's reaction had he been present. But that proved impossible. Hardang existed in a sensible world that he had taken with him upon his death.

"Will you be along soon?"

Morwen nodded.

As Gildis closed the door behind her, Morwen marveled at the woman's far-reaching gaze. Hers and always been so close to home, rarely wandering past the next season.

Alone, the shock ebbed away, followed by a hot, bubbling fountain of anger. The wine had given her a stomach ache and made it impossible to stem the tide of events of the day that crowded around her, hemming her in, till any peace she might have enjoyed in the solitude of her chamber choked her like weeds around a seedling. She stifled a moan of frustration, grinding her palms against her eyes as the memories came, quite unbidden.

Morwen hadn't known what instinct had propelled her, maybe the over-bright look in Halmir's eyes, but she had greatly desired to pull Halmir back down off the platform, to silence him, anything - but he would go on and she had felt constrained by the good breeding demanded of the lady of the house to not make a scene. There was the confusion after Halmir's announcement. The stiff silence. The tangle of explanations and compliments on her left. And Morwen, sitting in the seat of disaster while bells jangled in her ears half the afternoon as boys and girls danced. Thank the stars Adrahil had not come to witness the spectacle.

Small consolation!

The entire valley, half the men of Arnach, and the crown prince of Rohan were witnesses in Adrahil's stead. How long before the news spread all over the fief and beyond?

Whatever she had expected or suspected, namely that her kinsmen were shirking the irksome retirement of deep mourning, that he should come to pay her court had never crossed her mind. Though she now realized it had certainly crossed others'. Her neck and cheeks burned to the touch just thinking about it.

And how could she face her guests after Halmir and Hundor shamed her? Not just with ridiculous announcements, but outright snubbing the prince. She prayed Thengel would take his men and go. If she had to provide him with a cart and horses for Guthere, she would do it. He could keep the lot of it if only she didn't have to face him in her humiliation.

What could Halmir possibly be thinking of? Morwen asked herself the question over and over like a weathervane in a gale. Round and round they went went at full tilt, making her sick to her stomach. What had come over Halmir? They were cousins removed some by two generations, it was true. But never, not once had he expressed any attachment to her - friendly or otherwise. Until the cloth - the stupid cloth. She'd mistaken the gesture for condescension not romance.

She had never thought to marry until the moment of his very public broadside. Marriage was a vague idea. She knew it happened to people - sometimes to people she knew. Nothing to trouble herself over. For some women marriage was an economic necessity. For others, the result of passion. Fortunately, she was a stranger to both want and longing.

Of course, she had never thought of marriage as a method for controlling someone. And that's what he had attempted to do, announce his intentions publicly to embarrass her into accepting him for some undiscoverable end.

The meanness of it made her want to scream.

Morwen tried to remember what her mother had said about their courtship. They were both older by Gondorian standards. Hirwen saw Randir in the marketplace in Minas Tirith. He tried to make a joke and failed, then in his embarrassment bought a barrel of apples for twice its worth after walking off without collecting either the change or the apples. Hirwen hunted him to the Archives. She liked his absent-minded charm. Later he admitted that he had to live on the apples for a month because he'd spent all this pocket money. They were married the next year. Hirwen's uncle gifted the land and lodge so they could support themselves.

They had been giddy and foolish and natural, but at least they were in love.

Feeling that she had taken more time than she ought to herself, Morwen rose and left her room. The air felt cooler in the empty hall. The fire which had been neglected since dawn had whittled itself down to a few red embers. She found a wrap hanging over the back of her father's chair and threw it around her shoulders.

The afternoon had crept along and soon her guests would return to the hall, so Morwen built up the fire with another iron. The scent of woodsmoke and the warm light provided a temporary balm. She had spent most of her childhood feeding things into this fire. As long as there was a fire here it felt like home.

It made Morwen wonder about the near empty garth in Arnach, south along the Erui deep in the vale. She did not know Ferneth well, despite the relative nearness of their homes. The people of Lossarnach were not many compared to some fiefs and they stuck to their vales and hollows. They would come together in wartime under their lord's banner if need be. Her mother's kin had been like that. Not overly close - certainly not the way her father's kin in Belfalas were. He always maintained careful records off all his cousins and wrote to all of them as if they were brothers and sisters instead of remote relations. That had been easier when he was one of the Steward's scriveners in Minas Tirith in the days before he met Hirwen.

The tap of boots on the kitchen threshold, which were too heavy for Hareth's, sent a chill down Morwen's spine. She tugged her wrap tighter around her shoulders as she rose. A flimsy shield.

"I thought I'd find you hiding here."

Morwen ground her teeth. "Hiding?"

"Peace, I don't want to fight," Halmir said as he stepped into the firelight. He had dropped the theatrical tone he had worn that day like a pantomime robe, and though his voice still sounded thick, it no longer contained that dreamlike quality of the drunk.

Water droplets caught the firelight as they fell from Halmir's wet, flattened hair. He smeared the moisture away from his brow and flicked it off his hand with a sneer.

"Why are you all wet?" she asked.

Halmir glowered at her. "I had a meeting with a rain barrel, compliments of your guest."

"Oh no," Morwen moaned.

"Oh yes," Halmir griped. Then he winced and gripped his forehead. "This prince of yours has a short fuse. Though why he can't mind his own business is beyond me."

Morwen paled. What on earth had compelled the prince to provide her cousin with a dunking? She wished he had ignored the whole stupid spectacle rather than participate in it.

"I have to return to the orchard," she said in alarm. To apologize? To assess the damage? To gain a modicum of control?

"They can do without you for a little while," Halmir grumped.

"So can you, but I have a duty." Of course it made the duty sweeter if it prolonged the wait for this dreaded conversation.

Halmir positioned himself between her and the hall doors. "I insist."

"Fine. Get it over." Like pulling a tooth or a scab.

Her surrender seemed to throw him off. Morwen stared mulishly at the fire while he regrouped. She could feel him contemplate her profile.

"You are very beautiful," he said, as if only half aware that he spoke aloud. "I wonder when that happened? I used to think you looked like Hundor."

Morwen rolled her eyes. More useless compliments…and a dig.

He shook his head. "I see my error now," he continued. "The announcement was ill done. It ought to have been discussed privately between us before I claimed anything publicly."

Claimed? The range of possible retorts staggered her. She bit her cheek, giving him a look that willed him to go back to the party - or Arnach - if he valued his continued existence.

He kept talking.

"Morwen, I realize my plans are premature," he said groggily, "but I did not ask you to marry me on a whim."

"You didn't ask at all!"

Halmir winced again as her retort knocked around in his skull. "Well, it goes without saying, doesn't it?" he replied. "I had no choice after I realized how this prince had encroached on you."

She gave him a sharp look. "You have completely invented this scenario, Halmir, which I find baffling."

He held up his hand. "Listen, please. You and I have both experienced great losses within the space of a year. Your venerable father and my brother. The world is an uncertain place for you, a young woman, and for me, the mere servant of an infant lord. Our house - the house of Lossarnach - lies vulnerable. But you and I - we can strengthen it."

"Vulnerable? To what danger?" she deigned to ask. If a risk existed, she wasn't sensible of it.

Halmir sent a black look out of the window. "Even now there are some who would continue to whittle away at Halgemir's line until there's nought left but little Forlong. Who will defend the child's interests if all the men are gone to Ithilien? Wasn't Hardang enough to satisfy the lords of Minas Tirith?"

She stared. Did he mean Prince Thengel? If Rohan could spare its crown prince in the defense of Gondor's borders, who was Halmir to complain if Lord Ecthelion required Haldad's useless younger sons?

"Your preference for your kin in Belfalas is no great secret and I know you don't love me," he added. "I won't pretend I love you either."

She glared at him.

"Yet."

"Halmir—"

He held up both hands. "Please, Morwen. We don't love one another yet, but we could one day."

"Are you willing to take that gamble?" she demanded. She sank into her chair, resenting her cousin for tainting the comfort she always found under her own roof. "On an eventuality? The odds look bleak to me."

"Marriage is a gamble." He scoffed at her naivety. "How many besotted fools come to regret their choice after their blinders come off?"

Then his eyes lit up, he came toward her with arms wide as if he had been handed revelation from the herald of the gods. "But you and I don't have to be fools. We will go into it without pretense. We could be happy for the very fact that we are not in love."

The way his sodden mind worked made her dizzy.

"You're mad." She would have laughed but for the tearful constriction in her throat. "I don't respect you either, Halmir, let alone love you," she told him. "Without that, there's little hope that either of us would be happy. In fact," she tilted her chin defiantly in the air, "I would plague your heart out."

He looked like she had bit him. She admitted to herself that the last bit had been childish, but that was more honest to their true relationship than what he proposed. His hands disappeared behind his back while his jaw worked. Morwen remained in her father's chair while Halmir paced the floor - albeit unsteadily - before the hearth. She pitied the buckskin rug he ground under his feet on the pivot at the end of each lap.

"How long do you intend to stay?" she asked before the monotony of his movements drove her into a frenzy.

"As long as it takes to receive a favorable answer, my dear." He sounded almost cavalier, perhaps in an attempt to conceal how her brash words had hit a nerve.

"Halmir," she said steadily. "It is easy to give. My answer is no."

He stopped to look at her, eyes dark with disappointment. "Think of the suitability, Morwen," he said quietly.

"You have described it to me at length. But it would be unconscionable for me to accept your suit," she pointed out. "You should be in mourning. I have no desire to wed."

He waved off her objections. "A woman who does not desire to wed? Impossible. All women want to marry. That is their portion."

Morwen ground her teeth. "Not mine."

"I will persuade you," he said lightly, unperturbed by the scowl on her face.

"No, Halmir, you won't." She tried to sound firm. Did he truly believe he could simply will her feelings in whatever direction he wished? If one thing was true of this valley, it was that Morwen reckoned for herself.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. "But I will. I can. I don't boast idly, you know. Do I look anything but deadly serious?"

Morwen wanted to cross her arms over herself but kept her hands planted firmly on the armrests, fingernails biting into the wood. "What persuasion could you possibly use? I don't love you and a husband is of little use to me. I am in full command of my dowry and I have a house and land to provide what I need."

Halmir saw light and he smiled. He waved away an invisible vapor.

"Oh, you have that little stipend from your father, the youngest son of the youngest son of some long-dead prince? Is that enough to live on?" He stopped pacing to lean in over her. "Do you have land, Morwen? Did your mother give you that? You have been allowed the use of land. It was given to your mother and father by my grandfather since yours had nothing to provide his only surviving daughter. Ah, there's that second son again," he said with a curl in his lip. "But it was a peculiar arrangement. The land was a lease and a verbal agreement only. Unless you have a certificate somewhere no one else has seen? Do you have that, Morwen?"

Morwen began to see light. Something like ice formed in her stomach. For the first time she felt that Halmir's bravado might not be all bluster.

"Speak plainly," she told him.

"Gladly." He turned away, arms crossed as if hugging himself. "Your have no claim to Bar-en-Ferin as your own. You have no right to succession on tenement land. In fact," he said, facing her again. "You only remain installed in your beloved orchard at the sufferance of the Lord of Lossarnach."

Morwen's eyes burned, scattering firelight reflected in unshed tears as he outline the vulnerability of her claim to the plantation.

"As far as I know, the Lord of Lossarnach still suffers it," she countered, though her footing felt precarious.

"But the lord's regent questions the wisdom of the arrangement."

"And who is the regent?" she asked defiantly.

"I am." He gave her a smug smile.

Morwen had never thought of him as truly ugly until that moment. She rose out of her seat, feeling at a disadvantage as he stood over her and understanding set in.

"Halmir, are you strong-arming me into marriage or into giving you Bar-en-Ferin?"

He touched her cheek. "It is one and the same, Morwen dear."

She danced hurriedly away from the chair and out of his reach. It shamed her to recoil and her resentment rose up in her like a scream.

"This scheme is beneath you. Hardang would never have countenanced it."

Halmir's face twisted into a sneer. "It would not have been necessary if my brother had not fallen in Ithilien," he said resentfully. "We have his son to think of and our own line."

"Your brother managed your household without absorbing mine."

"My brother's loss is a heavy blow, Morwen." His voice sounded stern, as if she were a recalcitrant child, unwilling to heed her betters. "Hundor and I are persuaded that our grandfather could never have meant for so much good land to leave the family."

"It has not left the family," Morwen pointed out stiffly. "He was my mother's uncle. My great-uncle."

"Perhaps. But when you are married, as one day you will be," he said over the sound of her scoffing, "it will only pass farther and farther outside the line. Unless you accept my happy alternative."

It was a little late to strike a noble figure, Morwen thought acidly. He was a beast.

"What does Ferneth say to all this?" she wondered belatedly.

Halmir made a sour face. "Ferneth has as much to say about this as a decorative cushion would have in the furnishing of a hall. Besides, the poor woman is grief-stricken and recovering from a difficult labor, which she suffered through alone. And as the eldest surviving son of Haldad, I must take up the mantle until my nephew comes of age." Halmir's voice softened. He sounded almost affectionate. "Morwen, I am not trying to take Bar-en-Ferin away from you. I'm trying to share it with you."

Morwen fumed. His selfishness galled her enough without all this whitewashing.

"It isn't yours to share," she retorted, refusing to be drawn in. "My parents built up this land to what it is today. Yours never cultivated it."

He dropped the mask of affection like a rock. "I think you'll find it is mine to do with as I please until Forlong—"

They were interrupted when the hall doors opened. Cenhelm and Gladhon entered with Guthere strung between them. Halmir backed away from Morwen, but it was the Rohirrim who looked sheepish.

"Are you unwell?" she asked Guthere.

He looked sweaty all over, but he said, "Oh, well, no…."

"He grows dizzy and short of breath after so long," Cenhelm answered. "We let him overdo it."

Morwen crossed the hall toward them. "Should I call Nanneth?"

Cenhelm shook his head. "No he just needs a rest. We see this kind of thing often when blood's been lost." He glanced over at Halmir. "Pardon the intrusion."

Stung again, she allowed them to pass into the corridor. When they were gone, Halmir passed beside her toward his own room.

"Where are you going?" she asked suspiciously.

"To have a lie down. My head's split," he grumbled. "But consider what I have told you, Morwen. I expect a more favorable answer soon. Until then, we will trespass a little further on your hospitality."

"Trespass is the only correct word you have said all day," she called tartly.

He turned back to glower at her from the shadows. "You know what I meant, Morwen. And you know that in truth you are trespassing on our hospitality and our good will. Good night."

Morwen watched him go through bleary eyes. Oddly, that made her feel better. She never cried when she was in real trouble. Only when she was deeply frustrated. If Halmir believed he could cow her into taking him or giving up her home, he was mistaken.

She would be iron and ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halgemir - first lord of Lossarnach
> 
> Hathol and Hador: sons of Halgemir
> 
> Haldad: son of Hathol
> 
> Hirwen: daughter of Hador
> 
> Hardang, Halmir and Hundor: sons of Haldad
> 
> Morwen: daughter of Hirwen


	12. Rain Barrels and Waves

"That'll do, my prince. It won't help to drown the fellow. "

The calm of Cenhelm's voice dispersed some of the red fog clouding Thengel's brain. He had one hand on the lip of a rain barrel and the other squeezing the back of Lord Halmir's neck, half of which he's submerged into the rainwater. A net of black hair floated at the top of the water, disturbed by a storm of bubbles.

Thengel pulled Halmir up by the man's scruff and received a shower of water for his trouble, though his sleeves were already drenched. He was made to let of go of Halmir by Cenhelm. The lordling coughed and sputtered and dripped all over the grass, seemingly unaware of anyone else until he could catch his breath.

"There," said Cenhelm to Lord Halmir, helping to steady him. "No hard feelings. Only you weren't too sober and it was getting out of hand."

"Let go of me," Halmir sniped as he wiped rivulets of water from his face. He stumbled backward away from Thengel's guard who had assembled around the barrel to keep the rest of the guests at a safe distance, complaining loudly of cutthroat barbarians.

Thengel turned to follow Halmir, but Cenhelm stayed him. The lordling disappeared around the front of the dais into the crowd.

"Give Lord Halmir a proper head start before you tackle him again," Cenhelm said. "Or put your own head in the barrel for a cooling if you aren't wet enough already."

Thengel glanced down at his dripping sleeves and tunic. Halmir had thrashed around like a hooked shark. "There's nothing wrong with my head."

"Only you don't use it at times. My lord, it isn't your place to thrash the young people. Save that for the Steward's enemies."

Thengel pretended to ignore this, listening to what was said among his men.

"Barbarians," Thurston drawled. "Hhn."

"Do you think he means us?" Guthere asked.

Gladhon, on whose arm Guthere was leaning, eyed the grizzled head wound and scabbed over scratches.

"He wasn't referring to himself, that's certain," he said.

Thengel accepted a cloth from Thurstan who had gone to fetch it from the dais table. He scrubbed the water from his face and neck.

"Where is Lady Morwen?" he asked.

"She went back to the house with her serving woman," Thurstan answered. "Just about the time you introduced Lord Halmir to the barrel."

At least there was that, Thengel thought. "Good. She doesn't need to see her cousin just now."

"Lord Halmir also scarpered off that direction." Thurstan thumbed over his shoulder in the direction of the house. "I'm not sure what good you did beyond clearing his muddled head for another round of marriage talk. Though that smirking grub, his brother, is still around if you'd like a go at him too."

Gladhon frowned as he craned his head toward the orchard gate. "Now we won't hear Lady Morwen's answer," he complained.

"That's the point," Thengel muttered.

"You aren't curious?"

"No," Thengel snapped. It was the resounding word in his head when Halmir announced his intentions. Halmir in his blinding tunic and curled hair would never value the woman with the dirt of her beloved orchard under her nails.

Gladhon shrugged. "You don't seem keen on him asking her."

Thengel nearly drilled Gladhon into the ground with the look he gave. "Asking? He told her to marry him," he muttered. "That isn't how it's done."

"How would you know, my lord?" Cenhelm said dryly. "You've never tried."

Thengel tossed the cloth back to Cenhelm. "For good reason." Which he wasn't about to explain to them.

"I also fail to see how this turn of events between our hostess and her cousin are any business of yours," Cenhelm droned on. "After all, you aren't her protector."

"No, I'm not." What did that have to do with anything? Thengel gritted his teeth. For a man to come to a lady's home with a small army, devour the eatables, drink himself into a stupor, then put her on the spot in front of her guests. Well, it flew in the face of decency. Self-centered, overbearing, egomaniac…it was exactly the sort of thing Thengel's father would have done — if Lady Morwen had been a side of beef.

And now Thengel's own men were questioning whether he ought to have come to Lady Morwen's defense? Fengel King has certainly sent his son the most annoying riders he could come by.

Thengel swore under his breath. He needed to get free of Hardang's brothers and his own guard to retrieve his native tranquility. Turning abruptly, he took off down the nearest path beneath the trees. Nothing like exercise for venting steam.

"Where are you going?"

"Further up and further in." He waved them off when they tried to follow. "No, I want to go alone."

…

Thengel walked alone under the apple trees high on the orchard slope beyond the range of other guests until his sleeves were nearly dry after the soaking and his anger cooled to a few smoldering embers. He barely felt the little pebbles and grass tussocks beneath his feet as he walked, but the uniform lines of flowering trees had a mollifying effect on him. Thengel observed, dryly, that if he had encountered more fruit trees in his life things might have gone otherwise for him. And he clung stubbornly to that thought, because just behind it came the recollection of what had just happened. His mind darted around it the way a fly rises and falls around a pile of horse shit. He was the fly that didn't want to land.

He had begun to breathe normally by the time he reached the last of the apples. The west wall loomed over the curve of the slope and the lines of trees ended in the green sward. Just a few strides ate up the distance and Thengel stood before the door leading beyond Morwen's — or whoever's — property into the woods. He gripped the handle, then remembered the lock required a key that lay in her possession.

"The door is locked."

Thengel recoiled from the door, swiveling around to find the cracked artist sitting with his easel just within the shadow line cast by the trees. The old man held a brush in one hand that dripped paint onto his blessedly clothed knee.

"You need a key," Teitherion croaked.

Years must have passed since a mere civilian had caught him unawares since he developed the instincts of a trained ranger. He thanked Bema that Ecthelion wasn't hard by to witness the slip.

"I know," Thengel managed to say around his confusion.

"Lady Morwen keeps it, I believe," that artist added helpfully.

"Does Lady Morwen know you're sitting up here?" Thengel asked.

The artist shrugged. "Of course. We have an agreement. She allows me to paint in peace as long as I remain garmented."

Bless the woman, Thengel thought.

Teitherion's eyes puckered up as he took in Thengel's appearance. "You're the exiled prince, aren't you?"

Thengel's eyes slid sideways in case anyone else happened to be nearby. The conversation had a familiar ring to it. Thengel already thought the artist's mind had proved less than balanced. He could add forgetful to the list.

"Yes," he answered hesitantly.

Teitherion sniffed. "I painted your portrait."

"You said so when I stayed at your hut."

Teitherion blinked rapidly. Then he shrugged and continued painting. "Did I? Oh well. What was the name of your steed? He has wonderful lines. Very proud bearing. A pleasure to paint."

The question stabbed Thengel in the chest. "Fyrwylm. He had wonderful lines."

"Dead?" the artist weedled.

"I sent him back to Rohan before he was too old to enjoy the plains again, but…yes. You painted him, as well?"

A cunning look spread across his face. "If you ever want it I'd be happy to sell."

Thengel frowned and said, "I thought you donated it to the Archives."

The artist shrugged. "I could withdraw it."

Thengel took a step backward. He felt half tempted, but knew the old scammer simply knew how to exploit his loyalty to his first mount. "I'm not interested."

"No? That's unusual," the artist said thoughtfully. "It's a cunning painting, if I do say so myself. A memento for you. Besides, most important people are fond of looking at their likenesses."

"I prefer not to look at myself," Thengel groused.

Teitherion gave him a knowing glance. "If you don't know how you look, how can you fix your appearance?"

Thengel groaned inwardly. That's what he didn't like - saying something completely innocuous only to have a sage twist those very words into something erudite and irritating.

"If you want to reconsider, try looking it up in the Archives when next you return to Minas Tirith." Teitherion rooted around in his stained bag then handed Thengel a pulpy square of homemade paper. He painted a name across it in an shaky hand. "That's the archivist who curates the art collection. Ask for him."

"Right." Thengel shoved the card into his sleeve - forgetting about the paint until it was too late. He swore under his breath. Blue-black paint streaked down his wrist and the paper stuck to his skin. An angry color. It struck him as odd. He looked up. The sky which had been blue in the afternoon had begun to cloud over with gray. This was not the color of the sky.

"What are you painting, Teitherion?"

The artist gestured for Thengel to step around the easel and see for himself. Wave upon wave heaped up over one another. In the background of the painting a silver-white spike struggled to keep its head above the water.

The image confused Thengel. "I thought you'd paint the trees."

Teitherion snorted. "I've painted thousands of trees in my time and sent them all to market with Lady Morwen's folk in the summer for people with no taste and little pocket money to purchase. Why on earth would I want to paint more?"

Thengel looked around them. They were surrounded by trees. "But you're in an orchard."

"An artist doesn't have to paint what's directly in front of him," Teitherion said sourly.

"Then where do these waves and that spike come from?"

Teitherion squeezed his eyes shut. "Dreams." He shuddered. "Nightmares. The people of this country have always been haunted by rising waves…and the land under waves."

He hadn't meant to, but Thengel found himself backing away. The artist opened his eyes.

"You won't get out that way," Teitherion continued.

Thengel stared. "What?"

The artist prodded the air in Thengel's direction with his paintbrush. "The garden door behind you. You can't get out that way. You'll have to go back down through the orchard."

"I don't wish to get out," Thengel muttered to himself. Just away.


	13. Threes

The sun had started to set behind the western ridge when Thengel, tired and fed up, said his goodbyes to his friends and wandered through the twilight beneath the beech trees lining the road. Morwen hadn't been at the gate when he passed through.

Domestic sounds of the servants cleaning up drifted in from the kitchen when Thengel entered the hall, but the main room stood empty. He crossed by the table where Guthere had been tended by the healer. Someone had scrubbed the blood away during those first difficult days. He paused and considered the table.

Curiosity over a grassy road in a shaded wood had led them all to this table. When they first arrived, the house and the inhabitants didn't have a story, but slowly he had come to know Lady Morwen and her folk. Today he felt the story had jumped ahead a chapter and that Imloth Melui contained more than trees and deer and a few backwoods cottagers. What part the story marked out for him he didn't know. Perhaps no part at all.

He left the table behind for the study door. The hall behind him looked deserted as well as the corridor. But the instinct that had deserted him in the orchard had returned and told him that though he could not hear or see anyone he had entered occupied space. Carefully he opened the study door. Darkness shrouded the chamber except for the glow of a low fire. He looked across the room through the shadows and saw the figure of a man reclining on the couch against the wall.

At first Thengel thought Halmir was asleep. He cursed under his breath. But Halmir stirred on the couch when Thengel let the latch clinked in the door. The man groaned and clasped his head, which gave Thengel some satisfaction. He lit one of the candles fitted in a sconce on the wall. Halmir winced at the small light it made.

"You don't seem well, Lord Halmir," Thengel said wryly.

Halmir groaned pitifully. "I suppose I should thank you for the wetting," he muttered acidly, leaning forward to bury his head in his hands, "rather than sticking my head on a pike overlooking the orchard."

Thengel's breath stilled at those words that seemed to echo back to him through time and space. A grey wooden fence covered over in moss arose in his mind. It surrounded a crooked hill that rose out of the plain like a nose on slat-cheeked giant. At the top of the hill sat a golden hall that housed an aging man with the greasy remains of his meal congealing in his beard. Those words, that threat, had been the last thing he ever said to the king, his father.

Béma, he hadn't taken Halmir for a tactical fellow, but the man knew how to upset Thengel's balance with expediency. Judging by the brightness in his eyes, Halmir knew he'd made a hit.

"Yes, I heard that is your preferred method of dealing with men who get in your way," said Halmir. "Not very delicate with your threats, are you. Heads on pikes. Morwen might not know that she is harboring a traitor, but I know what you are."

Thengel bit his tongue, as it tended to be the root of any trouble he landed himself into, and stared down Halmir with little love until he could think with a semblance of clarity.

"Your rooms are down the hall, I believe," he managed to say with an even tone.

Halmir snorted. "Yes, but how else am I to have a word with you without your Tulkasian thugs hanging around?"

"I would suggest you avoid it entirely," Thengel replied, keeping his tone detached, "before you wade too deeply into matters that do not concern you."

Halmir shrugged and rose from the couch. "I will make them my concern if you continue to meddle in mine. This is your only warning."

Thengel felt the prickling of fine hair on the back of his neck at Halmir's pretentious tone. Who did this pretender think he was? And just how did Halmir imagine Thengel was meddling, as he put it?

"I will do as I please, lordling, without deferring to you," Thengel replied. "Your threats mean but little."

Halmir's eyebrows twitched upward over his ferrety face, which looked even longer when his hair hung dankly around it without the fabricated curls.

"Are you certain? You see, Prince Thengel, Morwen devoted herself to her father. She cannot fathom how a man with any human feeling could threaten to murder his. Do you really believe she would tolerate your presence as a guest if she knew?"

Thengel crossed deeper into the room, past Halmir. "She has the sense to know that people cannot be blamed for words spoken in the rashness of youth."

"Can't they? Then why hasn't King Fengel recalled you? On the contrary, Prince Thengel, your assault on my person rather confirms that you have not grown out of this so-called rashness of youth. In fact, I could lawfully demand satisfaction from you."

"Satisfaction?" Thengel laughed, a dry, mirthless sound that caused Halmir to step back as if unnerved by this unexpected reaction. Halmir's face flushed.

"Do you find law and tradition humorous?"

"No. Law and tradition have their virtues, which is why its humorous that you should invoke them. You were drunk in a public place and received due treatment," said Thengel once he stopped laughing. "If anyone has the right to demand satisfaction, as you say, it's Lady Morwen."

Halmir shivered like an angry dog when another had stolen his bone. "You can laugh at me, but at the end of the day you're still just an exile with no home and prince with no country."

Thengel caught the invisible gauntlet and approached Halmir slowly. Though he stood no taller than the Gondorian, he had width and presence that came with holding a line of men by his side against an onslaught. Halmir leaned away.

"If you continue in this manner, lordling, I promise you'll get a taste of this temper you're so keen to remind me that I possess. You've annoyed me more than once today and it's not in the Rohirrim's temperament to forget an offense. You've harped on my meddling with whatever scheme you have up those gaudy sleeves of yours and I tell you I wasn't meddling, but you're making it my business when you come serving me threats. If you do it again I'll get a hold on you that you won't easily wiggle out of. Understood?"

Halmir had the sense to keep his mouth shut, but he managed a sneer before he beat a hasty retreat through the study door.

Thengel stationed himself in the chair behind the desk and stared the door down, half expecting a line of accusers to follow in Halmir's wake. Why not get it all out of the way at once now that his temper was primed and ready?

When no specters from his youth appeared, Thengel resigned himself to the last accuser left in the room, his own conscience.

Thengel had not expected his past mistakes to be flung in his face, let alone by a man he had known for less than a day. After he had proved himself in the defense of Gondor these last twenty years, was it possible youthful indiscretion could overshadow any renown he might have won? Nobody spoke to him of those years until that wretched night they spent in the company of Teitherion. His guards were instructed not to, he believed rather than knew, and Thengel never asked. Neither had his adoptive father and brother, Steward Turgon and Ecthelion. Not since Thengel's first night in Minas Tirith.

He did not like the idea of exposing his past misdeeds to Lady Morwen. He told her that he had disrespected Fengel King that day when they walked to Anorian's well. An understatement. Disrespect earned a boy a hiding in Meduseld. Disturbing the king's peace with murder threats could not be ignored. He tried to reach back into that memory to feel the heat that fueled that desire and found he could not rekindle it in the semi-dark of Lord Randir's tidy library. In its place he felt only a cold, damp regret.

Thengel's fingers curled around the spine of the book he had borrowed from Lord Randir's shelves, a history text of Numenor and its kings and queens. He'd slogged through it most of the night before. He opened to a random page and read.

The moral breakdown of the king and heir relationship, in which the flouting of authority lay, this began with the Prince Aldarion and Tar-Meneldur. This same rebellious and stubborn pride spread into his marriage to Erendis, ultimately tainting the line and ensured a bad end. In all senses, the decay which began before the reign of Tar-Aldarion, engendered again in his heir Tar-Ancalimë, was but a seed of the audacity behind the usurpation of the throne by Ar-Pharazôn and the sinking of Númenor.

Thengel closed his book in frustration. So, even the paragons of the West took issue with their fathers. But to blame the collapse of a civilization on a boy who wanted to go to sea seemed ridiculous. The words had a weight to them, though, which Thengel could not shake. Division spawned weakness. In a family. In an army. An enemy could render a company twice as vulnerable if it managed to part its men.

Thengel had learned that lesson the hard way and it had cost them the Lord of Lossarnach. Then by some perversity of nature, Thengel had found himself ensconced in Hardang's cousin's home while his friend slept in the ground. And perhaps the only service Thengel had managed to render Hardang's cousin had taken the form of a barrel.

Why though? Thengel couldn't recall the details exactly. There had been the distressed look on Lady Morwen's face after her cousin's speech, the last straw in the a pile of offenses which involved turning this beautiful place into a parade ground, and then he remembered Cenhelm urging him to release his grip on the sodden Halmir who was doubled over in the rain water like the greasy duck he was.

Of course, it had taken the rest of the afternoon for Thengel to see his actions with any clarity. Halmir's words had revealed old anger and it disturbed Thengel.

He had felt happy pretending to exist in a new story. Who was Halmir to remind him of the old? Or Teitherion, for that matter. How can a man change his appearance if he won't look at himself? Did everyone think he was the same man who left Rohan nearly twenty years ago?

A knock at the door scattered his thoughts like so many leaves. Thengel put his book down and called out for whomever it was to come in. Cenhelm pushed his head around the door.

"May we have a word, my lord?"

Thengel grunted. "Why not. They say trouble comes in threes."

"My lord?" Cenhelm frowned his concern.

"Nevermind."

Thengel waved him inside. Thurstan followed behind Cenhelm but stayed near the door. Cenhelm stood stiffly before the desk and it gave Thengel an uneasy feeling. They had not spoken of the feast and his men had given him wide berth after he returned from his walk in the orchard.

"Well?" he asked.

Thurstan nodded at Cenhelm, who cleared his throat. "We've talked it over, Thurstan, Gladhon, Guthere, and I. They didn't want to come in and tell you this themselves, as it's a volatile subject, so I've taken it upon myself to speak. "

Thengel gave them both an arch look. "But you brought Thurstan for backup?"

Thurstan crossed his arms, which amounted to an assent.

"I'll try to contain myself," Thengel answered, folding his hands over the desk.

Cenhelm nodded. "Thank you."

"So, what is it?"

Cenhelm glanced back at Thurstan, who shrugged.

"We've been in Lossarnach for a week," Cenhelm pointed out, "and with this new development we should seriously consider returning to Minas Tirith despite your predicament."

Thengel tapped his fingers on the book and tamped down his immediate negation. He wanted to return to Minas Tirith as much as he wanted to stick his hand into a scorpion's nest. The chaos that awaited, the expectations, the wretched parties - Thengel wanted solitude. He almost told Cenhelm as much, but he knew the men expected him to react somewhere on the strong side.

"It has," Thengel agreed reluctantly. "But can Guthere handle the return journey?"

Cenhelm glanced out the window into the dark. "He will require frequent rests, of course. The journey will take twice as long, but I think it would be best."

Thengel leaned forward so his arms rested on the desk. "Guthere needs more time. Lady Morwen won't begrudge us two bedrooms."

Cenhelm and Thurstan exchanged a meaningful look.

"But the situation has changed, Prince Thengel," Cenhelm continued starkly. "I cannot guarantee your safety, especially as I doubt Lord Halmir is used to the indignity of being washed in a barrel."

"Cenhelm's afraid you'll be killed with Halmir's men about. He'll have failed his duty," Thurstan supplied. "Besides, no new bairns, no new princes."

Thengel shot them exasperated glances. "If you're so worried, where were you lads half an hour again when I found Halmir sitting in here waiting for me?"

Cenhelm paled and Thengel almost felt sorry for him. "What is this? We were with Guthere."

"He's a fool, but I doubt he's fool enough to retaliate, Cenhelm," Thengel assured him, fully regretting telling them anything. "He talks a lot and says things he shouldn't, but I wager he only picks on people he believes won't fight back. I set him straight on that score."

Cenhelm clenched and unclenched his fists. "Forgive me, Prince, I should have -"

Thengel raised his hands. "Peace, Cenhelm. I'm far from helpless."

"Be that as it may," Cenhelm growled, "it's my duty to protect you."

"Another chance will present itself, I have no doubt."

"Certainly if you go asking for it, my lord," said Cenhelm stiffly, wounded by Thengel's flippancy.

"I?"

"Besides, Thurstan witnessed a row between the Lady's folk and those toy soldiers from Arnach for putting up tents in the yard."

Thengel scratched his chin, looking around Cenhelm shoulder at Thurstan. "A row, you say?"

"Yes. I went out to relieve myself and that scarecrow Beldir was fit to be tied - and might have been if I didn't break it up," said Thurstan. "Their tents covered the ground from the dooryard to the orchard gate."

Thengel frowned deeply. "If tensions are high here perhaps we might repay Lady Morwen for her hospitality by lending her support."

"What business is it of ours? None," Cenhelm demanded. "You are not authorized to intervene in matters such as these. In which case, can you justify staying?"

Thengel shook his head, and though he agreed with his guard, he didn't like it. He didn't have any authority in domestic disputes, let alone Lossarnach's affairs.

"It's a sorry business leaving her on her own, though."

"I doubt Lady Morwen would welcome your pity. She's made of metal, we've all seen that," said Cenhelm. "Besides, your business lies in Minas Tirith. We cannot stay forever."

Thengel sighed. "Yes, I know."

Cenhelm blinked in surprise. Thengel smiled ruefully, knowing full well that he had expected the prince's usual angry retort when he suggested returning to Minas Tirith in the spring.

But he couldn't face those duties awaiting him in Minas Tirith wholeheartedly, not unless he relinquished the bitterness he felt. In his mind, taking a greater interest in Rohan's policies, in marriage, and having an heir of his own in preparation of his own future kingship, all meant that despite the leagues between Rohan and Gondor, Fengel still had his leash on his son. It meant that the old tyrant had won. Béma, he thought he'd dealt with that long ago. Yet there was a difference between banking a fire and throwing water over it. Perhaps it would be best to be guided by his men.

"How long will it take to prepare to leave?" Thengel asked.

"We can be ready at first light," Thurstan answered.

"Not first light," said Thengel. "I will need to speak with Lady Morwen and it would be best not to bother her tonight."

Thengel dismissed them and picked up his book again. He heard the door close but when he looked up, Cenhelm had returned to the desk and placed himself in a chair in front of it.

"Tell me what happened with Halmir," said Cenhelm.

"I handled it, Cenhelm," Thengel replied dully.

"You are my prince, but I answer to Marshal Oswin, your uncle. And believe me I'd rather anger you than disappoint him. So, allow me to do my duty."

Thengel scrubbed his forehead with calloused fingers. Cenhelm was a compass that always pointed back to Marshal Oswin and it gave Thengel a headache. The old rider never asked anything unreasonable and maybe that's what Thengel struggled with the most, because he always had to give in. Almost always.

"Alright," Thengel sighed. "Halmir threatened to hit me where he believes my weakest flank to be."

Cenhelm folded his hands in his lap. "Which flank is that?"

"My past."

Cenhelm looked puzzled. "That's not a proper weapon. That's…what do they call it?"

"Blackmail."

Cenhelm's gray brow dipped down over his eyes like a raincloud. "But that won't work. Your past is no secret among your friends."

"He thinks he can mar my reputation with Lady Morwen."

"What's she to you but a friendly young lady? This Halmir doesn't know what he's about. But then, he isn't a soldier." Cenhelm laughed in the hearty manner of man who has had a heavy weight lifted from his chest. "You frightened me, Prince Thengel. I thought he tried to knife your back. Let the coward carry tales to the women."

Thengel felt the moment drew out before Cenhelm became aware that his prince wasn't laughing too.

"You aren't bothered by this, surely?" Cenhelm asked, incredulous.

"I don't like to disappoint her," he admitted.

"Disappoint Lady Morwen?" Cenhelm balked. "How? Because she would see the good of you along with the bad?"

"You have to admit my bad is…worst than most."

"Only because your responsibility is greater. In proportion to others, your mistakes are just like any other man's."

But Morwen certainly would think less of him if she knew the extent of his mistakes, Thengel felt sure. After all, she had been generous with her help and he liked to think, perhaps vainly, that he was somehow deserving of it. It had been so long since he met with people who were not aware of his past that he'd forgotten the discomfort of discovery.

"Cenhelm, you've been with me nearly a year. I never asked if you remember the night my uncle Oswin spirited me out of Edoras. I know you served in his éored at the time."

"Yes, I served in Marshal Oswin's eored for thirty years before he sent me to Gondor." The older man's shaggy eyebrows were nearly lost in his hairline, perhaps wondering where this was going. Then slowly he said, "Ever since you arrived in Gondor, the Marshal has always made sure at least one of the warriors assigned to you knew you as a boy - who can remember you as you were."

Thengel stared at this new revelation. His guard rotated out every three years and were selected at random by casting lots. At least, that's what he had been told. "How could Oswin do that without rigging the drawing?"

Cenhelm snorted at surprise on Thengel's face. "He rigs it to be sure."

Thengel whistled a shrill note, imagining what Fengel would do if he knew. "But why?"

Cenhelm leaned toward Thengel. "Because there are those who feel their prince deserted his duty to the Rohirrim. You might have done much as you grew older to curb Fengel King's avarice had you not been so hot-headed."

"Fengel exiled me," Thengel reminded him, stung by his guard's blame, "I didn't leave of my own free will."

"Marshal Oswin negotiated your exile. The king wanted blood for blood and had the right," Cenhelm countered. "You were exiled by your own will when you put your anger before the good of the people. Anger, not your past, will always be your weakest flank if you allow it."

Thengel had always taken delight in the release of diving blindly into the red haze of his anger. And he had been angry. At eighteen. At thirty-eight. That evening. This afternoon. His mother's face. Lady Morwen's. That dais, the drunken figure of her cousin had brought the years back to him. Anger, his old friend. The great motivator. Truth be told, he didn't know if he had washed Halmir or Fengel King in the rainwater. Halmir possessed the same selfish impulses. Didn't someone have to stand up to the bullies, be they kings or minor lords?

Now Thengel leaned forward. "I felt angry on their behalf. Fengel took no care for them. When my mother begged him to let her restore them at her own expense, he would rather burn their history than put less meat on his own table."

Cenhelm looked at Thengel strangely. "Do you imagine you are worth less to the Rohirrim than those banners? Banners can be remade," he pressed, "As if we would forget our own history if it wasn't hanging in front of our noses. We keep it here and here." He pointed to his head and his chest. "Better for the people if the banners had burned than to lose their prince."

Thengel sat back in stunned silence as the words took root in his mind. Worth more than the ancient banners of Rohan that hung in Meduseld long before he was born. Was he?

Thengel had always believed that being right and doing his duty were one in the same. Right to protect the banners that were falling off the walls in decay, to take his mother's side, even to threaten the king's life.

At eighteen it had seemed so much clearer. At thirty-eight, the banners were merely the last straw in a long line of insult and injury, which had begun in earnest when Thengel came of age to train as a rider. Fengel had refused to allow Thengel to train with the others, denying him the chance to earn the respect and trust of the men he would one day lead in defense of the Riddermark. Fengel, always paranoid that his son might uproot his throne before his time, had undermined his son at every turn. Thengel, being a hotspur ruled by his spleen, had played right into Fengel's hands. Instead of leading the Rohirrim, Thengel had won renown in the woods of Ithilien as Gondor's lieutenant while Fengel's throne remained safe and intact behind leagues of grasslands and the Firienwood.

He thought he understood a sliver of just how little that would merit him in Rohan where fewer riders remained who served under his uncles Fastred and Folcred and died side by side with Gondorian soldiers. Most of his people had never seen Gondor for themselves or spoke the Common Tongue.

"Now that you are here and have seen me, do you believe what you said?" Thengel asked quietly. "At least the banners still serve a purpose in Rohan."

"I said it would be better for the people," Cenhelm answered gravely, "not for you."

Thengel's eyes narrowed as he tried to puzzle out what Cenhelm had said. "What do you mean?"

"You are not the prince you would have been had you never left the Mark. You know more of the world, of our allies and our enemies, Thengel Thrice-Renowned. You're out from under the boot of Fengel King and that's a heavy burden."

Cenhelm grew thoughtful for a moment. "And yet you too easily slip away from your duty as crown prince. I think exile has been very good for you - but tell me, mīn hlāford, how then have you behaved any differently than your father?"

A blood roared in Thengel's ears. He shot out of the chair as if it had turned hot as coals. But the fire was burning him from the inside.

"I have spent my entire life trying to be different from my father," he growled.

Cenhelm appeared unmoved, even to have expected the reaction. He looked Thengel in the eye and seemed sad. "We can only avoid becoming our own fathers by degree, my prince. Fengel King eats his duty. You dance around it. The Rohirrim lack a leader either way."

Thengel stared at Cenhelm, unable to speak. Before long he found he could not look Cenhelm in the eyes either. He turned away toward the window. It was not so easy observing oneself from another man's perspective. No wonder he had never invited it before.

Cenhelm's chair creaked as the rider rose to his feet.

"There's plenty of fodder to feed on, so I'll leave you after just one more question. You know who will be waiting for you in Minas Tirith and what he will expect," said Cenhelm, once again breaking into Thengel's thoughts. "Are you prepared to stop dancing?"

Thengel stared out the window for a long moment, but the darkness had turned the glass into a mirror. Slowly, he nodded.

"Then some good has come of this journey after all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I apologize for the vague references to Thengel's past. I did write about the incident in a story that is as yet unpublished. As I find time, I hope to post it.
> 
> mīn hlāford: my lord
> 
> Tulkasian: Eh, I made it up. Tulkas is, of course, the Vala with pugilistic tendencies, known for intimidating even Melkor.


	14. Farewells

Prince Thengel stood on the threshold and held out his hand. Fat raindrops pooled together in his palm. He blinked upward into the rolling gray clouds hanging low over the valley like uncarded fleece.

"We seem fated to travel in the rain."

"It's springtime." Cenhelm drew his hood over his forehead. "Don't take it personally."

Thengel gave his guard a wry sideways glance before they both walked into the rain from the dry warmth of the house. Cenhelm shouldered their bags and went right, crunching over the gravel yard toward the stable nestled beside the other outbuildings. Thengel cut around the left side of the house toward the orchard lane.

The silver mantle of clouds hovered heavily over the valley, dripping steadily over the groves of beech trees and staining the garden wall a deeper gray. It smelled of wet earth and moldy canvas, for there was almost as much square feet of tent as there was of sod where Halmir's men had taken over Lady Morwen's lawn as their campground. The lawn, which had been peaceful and empty the day before, now teemed with men.

Familiar faces called out morning greetings to him. The unfamiliar stared openly until he made eye contact. Then they suddenly found themselves busy with bowls of congealed oats or rifling through bags.

Thengel gritted his teeth and walked on into the rain curtain until he passed through the orchard wall where the dogs greeted him looking half their original sizes as the rain pasted their fur down. They barked loudly with unintelligible news, licked his hands, and ran on. He followed them until he found Morwen half-hidden by a tree, wearing one of her old work dresses and boots. A faded red-brown cloak and hood hung damply from her shoulders. Her long braid lay coiled inside the hood and a leaf had caught itself on her hair just behind her ear. Wisps of fine hair clung to her damp neck and cheeks.

Morwen had just climbed down the ladder and was speaking to Beldir when he and Beldir exchanged stiff, dripping nods by way of greeting.

"Forgive me for interrupting your work," he said to Morwen. "I wanted to speak to you. Would you walk with me please?"

She answered by pulling her hood up over her head and stepping out from under the tree, away from the ladder. He followed her down a line of cherry trees beginning to feel as gloomy as the weather. The rain had caused many of the beautiful petals to fall during the night. The evening didn't appear restorative to Morwen either. He had learned to read her expression better as his stay progressed, and she was in a sour mood, judging from the thin press of her lips and furrowed brows.

"Nobody's working down there." She gestured down a line of trees toward the covered dais.

"We don't have to go far," he said as she led the way. "No doubt you have much to do in the garden."

"Some of the trees have developed cankers, most likely after they were trimmed last year and spread by the same shears. Beldir thinks Gundor had that row, but I think it probably belonged to one of the miller's daughters." She rolled her eyes.

Not knowing exactly what to say, he tried to gauge what that meant for the trees from her expression. She looked as grim as before.

He coughed. "That sounds…serious?"

"It isn't too serious if we can stop its spread now. Beldir and I are debating the merits of a poultice over leaving it to the air to heal, but that probably won't interest you."

"It sounds quite interesting," he said cautiously.

She cast him a skeptical look from under the hood.

"That is, I wish I could hear the full explanation, but I am afraid my men and I will be leaving within the hour. I wanted to say goodbye and, of course, to thank you."

She turned and blinked at him. "Goodbye?"

He bowed his head. "As you are no longer lacking for guests, we plan to ride for Minas Tirith this afternoon."

"Not all of you, surely?"

"Yes, all."

Lady Morwen peered up at him from under her hood. Her expression could have leveled him. "But Guthere cannot make the journey yet. He barely lasted the afternoon in the garden. And it's likely to rain for some time. Making the trip today seems unnecessary and unwise."

Maybe he should blame residual irritation from the day before mixed with the prospect of a wet day's journey ahead of him, but her choice of words rankled Thengel's pride.

"We will travel slowly and spend the night on the road," he said with deliberate calm. "Cenhelm and I both agree it is both necessary and wise."

"Nonsense."

"Nonsense?" he asked with deliberate calm.

"Moving Guthere now will set back his health terribly," she said, her voice crisp. "Even if you fancy traveling for two days in the rain at least leave him in my care until he can ride again."

She said it so firmly he was taken back. He couldn't tell if it was an invitation or an order. He could understand if Halmir made her grumpy, but he didn't see why she should direct her ire at him.

She was in distress, he reminded himself. With a cousin like Halmir harassing her, who wouldn't be? So he settled with a lame, "You don't mind being out in the cold and the wet."

"If I don't work I don't eat, Prince Thengel," she pointed out. "And I'm not suffering from a head injury."

"No, but I don't think Guthere would like to be left alone."

She gave him a challenging look. "You might ask him."

Thengel inclined his head, partially to show agreement and partially to hide his annoyed expression. He didn't know he'd been suffering from an illusion, but there it was. He expected Morwen to maybe feel a little sad to see him go, certainly not to argue with him.

"I will ask him," he said, "but I really don't think it's best."

"He will be perfectly safe with me. We aren't that overrun."

"I never said you were," Thengel began.

"Then what are you afraid of?"

"Well…" Bema, she wouldn't make it easy for him, "Inconveniencing you, of course."

Thengel wondered how she hadn't moved a muscle, and yet she seemed to have stepped away from him. Her eyes rounded into wide gray circles and her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Had it been an inconvenience I would have told you. It is not," she said coldly. "You came to me for help. Now we have to consider what is best for Guthere."

But would it be in her power for much longer? Thengel wondered. Still, she didn't look like backing down and it truly would be healthier for Guthere to remain where he was. Possibly healthier for Thengel too, for the young woman had a stormy expression of her own.

Thengel slowly realized his mistake. When he told her that they were making room for her other guests, he had insulted her by questioning her hospitality, to the extent that they would drag a sick man into poor weather conditions rather than stay. And probably he had poorly masked his dislike for her cousin. Her abrupt manners, he thought, was a shield to keep him at a distance.

"I don't mean to criticize your hospitality, Lady Morwen. I would like to stay, if I could. As it is, I have neglected my duties in Minas Tirith for some time and must return."

"Of course," was all she said.

They stood regarding one another in silence. Thengel decided to begin again. "I see I've upset you," he said. "I hope you'll forgive me for anything I've said. Though I can't help but notice that your manner toward me is different this morning. Is there something else I have done? Be frank. After all, I think we've become friends by now."

"Frank?" She looked at him squarely as if gauging whether or not he meant it. After a long moment, she spoke. "Then tell me, are you really leaving for business or because of my family?"

His expression gave away the answer.

Lady Morwen pressed her fingers into her eyes. "I knew you would be disgusted with us."

"Us?" he asked. "You don't think I would lump you in with Halmir and his brother? You have nothing to be ashamed of. It's the rest of us who behaved out of turn."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Lord Halmir and I had an unpleasant conversation and as a result I confess I behaved discourteously toward him," he said. "I should apologize for my loss of temper, specifically in the wetting of your cousin. As he is also your guest, I ought to have treated him with more courtesy."

Where she had been cold before, her eyes were flashing now. "If you must apologize, it should be to Halmir, not to me. I can't say I'm sorry at all," she said heatedly.

Thengel bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at her sudden fierceness. He liked it when it wasn't directed at him.

"And I have the feeling that Halmir provoked it," she mused. "Won't you tell me what you talked about?"

Thengel remained silent while he thought over what to tell her. "I made the mistake, my lady," he said eventually, "of supposing Halmir and Hundor were cut from the same cloth as their elder brother. I was mistaken. I offered to help them where help was not wanted."

She gave him a blank look.

"I offered to help them find stations among Ecthelion's officers, for their brother's sake," he said. "The invitation was declined."

Morwen paused, stunned. "You mean they didn't want to join the defense in Ithilien."

"They have no sense of duty," he said before he could stop himself.

Certainly serving as officers under the Steward's captain in Ithilien would provide an honorable outlet for two young men of few resources and noble birth. Unless an outlet presented itself that required fewer deprivations and greater safety.

Morwen reflected, "You're wrong, Prince Thengel. Halmir and Hundor have a strong sense of duty — to themselves."

Thengel scrutinized her for a moment and then an uncomfortable thought entered his mind.

"Are you safe from Halmir?"

She looked surprised, then grave.

"Morwen?"

She gave him a strange look. "I think so," she said, "Yes of course. Beldir pointed out this morning, rightly, that we need only tolerate this until he grows bored and returns to Arnach." She smiled not very kindly. "Patience isn't one of Halmir's virtues and I am certain he won't stay long."

Thengel was relieved to hear that she sounded optimistic, if grimly so. Of course she could handle herself. He just needed to get out of her way.

There seemed little more to be said and the hour of Thengel's departure drew nearer, weighting the silence that fell.

"I'm happy to know you, Morwen," he said candidly. "I'm sorry your festival didn't go as planned, but for what it's worth, the valley does you credit. We have had a very comfortable time here."

"I'm glad," she replied, sounding much more like herself, "though I wish your travels had gone better. I've never made anyone's acquaintance over a cracked skull before."

Thengel laughed, despite the rain and foul moods. "I hope for everyone's sake it is the last time."

"Agreed."

They shook hands. Hers felt small in his, but strong of grip, calloused and remarkably grubby. She could be imperious as a princess and earthy as a farm hand. He smiled at the odd mixture.

She noticed him studying her hand and gently pulled it away, though she didn't apologize for the dirt.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing." But then he decided to add, "Only, I've observed that those who aren't afraid of hard work are better equipped to meet trouble when it comes."

"Is that a prophecy?" she asked.

Thengel shook his head. "Knowledge tempered by experience."

"Ah." She pulled her cloak more firmly around her shoulders as the wind picked up. "Goodbye, Thengel. Maybe we will see you again when Guthere has improved."

"I'll be back, provided he doesn't ride off on his own in a fit of boredom."

She smiled a little then, which made him feel extremely gratified. And another thought occurred to him.

"If you need help — anything at all before I return for Guthere — you can ask my friend Adan. He is trustworthy."

Morwen nodded. "Thank you, but what more can Halmir possibly do? Embarrass me, yes. Annoy me, definitely. But this will probably all blow over with the rain. He might be in Arnach again by the time you reach Minas Tirith. I doubt there is much more to worry about."

Thengel hoped so, too, as he threaded his way back through the orchard. Still, he would make a point to find Adan before he rode off with Thurstan, Gladhon, and Cenhelm. Thengel didn't know what sort of a strategist Halmir might be, but he knew a man didn't shift five score axemen around the countryside only to give in after two days.

...

Adan met Thengel at the stable door where a lot of other men were milling around. Gladhon already waited in the yard, tying on the last of his belongings to his saddle.

"Taking off, then?" Adan said.

"That's right." Thengel passed him inside.

He looked around and spotted Cenhelm and Thurstan conferring over a bag of food Thurstan had collected from the kitchen.

"No Guthere?" Thurstan asked.

"No," Thengel answered.

Cenhelm grunted. "Mollycoddling has gone to his head. He won't be fit for anything soon enough."

Thengel shrugged. "Once he's on his feet Lady Morwen won't tolerate a sluggard."

"That is true," Thurstan said ruefully. "I thought climbing trees would pass the time easily. Now my back aches and my feet still feel the ladder rungs."

Thengel clapped him on the back. "Then you've earned your keep." Then his voice turned grim. "You'll forget all about it once we reach Minas Tirith."

He made a sign for Adan to follow him down the aisle to his horse's stall. Rochagar sidled in his stall, anxious to join the other horses now leaving their boxes for the open yard.

"Listen, Adan," Thengel said, grabbing a brush. "As you've heard, Guthere will remain here until he can ride on his own."

"We'll look after him," Adan told him. He offered Thengel the saddle pad once he finished brushing down Rochagar.

Thengel folded the saddle pad over the horse's back, saying, "Lady Morwen's household will do well enough for him. It's Halmir who needs to be watched. If Lady Morwen needs help I want you to do what you can for her. That's an official order. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll answer for you if the lordlings give you trouble."

Adan brought Thengel the saddle. "I know, sir."

"Oh, and another thing," Thengel said as he placed the saddle on Rochagar's back and looped the tie strap. "Don't tell her that you're on the lookout. I think she would find it…"

"Patronizing?"

"Yes." Thengel reached for the bridle.

"I won't say a word unless I have to."

Thengel nodded. "Thank you, Adan. I know I can rely on you."

"Remember that when you're back in Ithilien."

Thengel latched his travel bag onto the saddle, then he clasped Adan's hand one last time and led his horse out into the dooryard. He disliked the scrutiny of so many unfamiliar men and wondered again if he let Cenhelm talk him into making a mistake leaving Morwen alone with a gang of bullies. It didn't seem fair.

And yet, Morwen had provided a means for him to return if it came down to it - whether she knew it or not. Maybe she did? For a second he contemplated the possibility that she knew keeping Guthere would allow her to see Thengel again, had arranged it, even.

He tamped down that thought. Morwen was a practical woman, after all, and rather too young for him. Capable, independent, pretty, but Gondorian. Why was he entertaining that thought anyhow?

He needed Minas Tirith and a dose of reality. Without Guthere slowing them down, he would get both by nightfall.


	15. Ill Usage

Morwen limped toward home. She flinched as a raindrop struck her eye when she looked up. It would rain on a day like this, she thought, when everything seemed fixed to set her in a foul mood. The cold didn't help either. It felt like autumn and that worried her.

The crux of the matter, she told herself, was that Thengel simply couldn't know that her father had also left for Minas Tirith on this day a year ago and that he had died over night in his sleep. Thengel didn't know and so he couldn't foresee how his unexpected departure would make her feel sick to her stomach. And on top of that, to think she couldn't handle Halmir.

Well, even she felt a little uncertain on that score.

And the end of it all was that Beldir had sent her back early after she took a misstep on the slippery ladder rung and wrenched her ankle. Not because she had done serious damage - it felt bruised but still bore weight - but because she become too gloomy even for him - and for the dogs who chose to stay with him.

The evening meal would be served soon besides, he had reasoned. That she would want to dry off beforehand, she agreed wholeheartedly. But she didn't want to be anywhere near the house. She felt much more comfortable behind the walls of the orchard where not one of Halmir's people had dared to follow.

She shivered beneath her damp cloak. It was too wet to wear much longer, even if she did want to keep out of the house. The rain filled the air with the scent of damp sod and what Morwen always thought of as a wormy smell. A few of the birds thought so too and a few were still out hopping over the grass to get the last worm for supper, undeterred by the sound of a single human scuffling along the road. She wondered if Prince Thengel and his men were yet within eyeshot of the Rammas Echor and if they were feeling just as cheerless. At least they didn't have to sleep out in the rain with Guthere to slow them down.

Gritting her teeth, Morwen saw the yard stretched out beneath the beech trees. Every inch of level ground had disappeared under a tent, just as it had been when her disbelieving eyes had first seen them that morning. They were various colors from muddy yellow to homespun to Ithilien green. And musty smelling. She tried to find the path between all the tents and accidentally upset a bucket of filth just outside of one sleeper's half tied doors.

Disgusted, she left it to lie there as she pictured many, many more buckets all needing to be emptied somewhere that wouldn't contaminate the well. And who would do that?

…

The pitch of antagonistic voices reached Morwen's ears before she had a clear view of the front of the house, where the sound came from.

"Hunting them is all very well, man, but what am I to do with them now?" Hareth's sharp voice pierced the dooryard. "Split its guts open in the kitchen, juices and all? I think not."

Morwen squeezed her eyes shut before rounding the corner of the house. She took a deep breath, and then walked into plain view of the confrontation. Hareth stood in the middle of the kitchen garden armed with a handful of green onions. Across the beds of seedling vegetables and early lettuces, stood Adan and three other men who between them carried two dead bucks suspended on poles. Hareth's broad shoulders created a screen for Morwen to approach nearly unseen.

"Tell us where we can take them, then."

"Behind the smoke house, of course. And that's where you can hang them too, when you're done. " Hareth waved the onions at the outbuildings. "Don't let me see them again until they're clean or I'll run you off myself!"

Morwen cleared her throat as she stepped around the cook. "Those look fine, Adan. What will you do with the venison?"

"Whatever you will, my lady. To help ease the burden of so many."

Hareth snorted.

Morwen gave her a look to stall her from saying anything ungenerous. "Thank you, Adan."

When the men carried away their kill, Morwen limped behind Hareth back to the kitchen. It smelled of fresh bread and crushed rosemary.

"They're only helping, Hareth. You shouldn't antagonize them."

"I don't care for soldiers. They're just the sort who ran us off our land in Ithilien."

"It was Turgon's men or else the orcs would have."

"It's beside the point. And here they are, making more work for me. It's fine for them to hunt the deer — annoying, overgrown rats eating my garden — for their own entertainment. But expect me to clean it and butcher it and cook it so they can eat. It hasn't even aged yet. I wouldn't eat that tough stuff."

"But, Hareth, Adan simply wished to show you what he had brought," Morwen reasoned. "He didn't mean for you to clean it."

Hareth sniffed. "As if I cared. He should watch himself. I don't skin deer but I have a fillet knife recently sharpened and no fish to use it on."

"I prefer you didn't fillet Adan. At least he tries to help."

"He is still one of them."

"Prince Thengel says we can trust him."

"Oh yes? And where the prince now? Running off to Minas Tirith." Hareth slapped her hand over her mouth, as if not referring to the city would keep Morwen from remembering that she had lost her father a year before. People were so odd around other people's grief.

Morwen touched the cook's shoulder. "It's alright, Hareth."

Hareth gripped the table with both hands. "I'm not myself today," she said. "We're all on edge now."

Morwen edged around the long table toward the interior door that led into the hall. "I know. I am too."

…

Morwen's ears were full long before she left Hareth behind in the kitchen.

"Now just a moment, my lady!" Gildis's voice broke over Morwen like fallen glass. "I want a word."

Morwen stifled a groan and turned to sooth Gildis, though she had little enough left to sooth even her own frazzled nerves. Everywhere she went there were unhappy people to appease.

"You're favoring your foot. What happened?"

"I slipped on a ladder."

"Hmph. Well, I'll have a look at it. I wanted a word anyway."

Gildis followed Morwen into her chamber and forced her into a chair while she helped remove her boots. She stopped before removing the one over the injured ankle.

"Wait till I get something to bind it first."

"I don't think it's so bad."

Gildis pursed her lips, then said, "Let's not make it worse."

When Gildis came back she had strips of linen hanging over her arm. She carefully removed the boot with only a little twinging of the ankle. She checked the swelling, making thoughtful sounds that didn't seem to signify doom for Morwen's foot. Then she set about wrapping it.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" Morwen ventured to ask.

"Do you need to ask?"

Gildis complained less in words as in the way she held herself. Her taut shoulders spoke of ill usage at the last minute rearrangement of the household and the fires that had to be prepared and dishes to be collected and beds to be changed. Not to mention the care of an invalid. All of which she oversaw. Then there was the crossing of the arms and the frowning of the lips. Even Halmir's men were not immune to that stormy expression and they stayed out of the hall.

"I know it isn't ideal," Morwen said lamely.

"Hardly." Gildis rolled her eyes as she finished with Morwen's foot. "Hareth suggested poisoning them today when they came round expecting her to serve them lunch. Ioneth is terrified these men are going to—use her poorly—so she won't step outside, not unless someone else comes with her. And I want to know what do you intend to do about it?"

"Did you tell Hareth she couldn't poison them?"

Gildis gave her a stern look.

Morwen rose and began to inch out of her dress. The ties were wet and difficult to unknot, but it provided a welcome distraction. Gildis handed her a cloth to dry with.

"Any sign of Halmir?" Morwen ventured to ask.

"No, he left this morning with his brother. He didn't say where, but I think he asked Hareth for some food. It sounded like they would be out for a while."

"That's a relief. Maybe they won't come back."

Gildis snorted, as if to remind Morwen not to be silly. They hadn't spoken about Halmir's intentions toward her since Gildis had helped her change her dress after she spilled wine down the front of it the day before. They both knew it wasn't the sort of announcement one made and then simply walked away.

A part of Morwen's mind still couldn't wrap itself around what was happening in her home. It startled her to realize how quickly a familiar place could begin to feel foreign. Invaded.

Her heart skipped a beat. For a horrible moment she felt overwhelmed with anger - and the source of her anger surprised and grieved her. Of all the days of the year when she should be mourning him, she felt a sudden resentment for her father. For abandoning her. For leaving Bar-en-Ferin open to someone like Halmir, who would never have had the gall to ride roughshod over the place in his lifetime.

And for what? Not knowing his heart had weakened? For dying overnight in her cousin's home miles away from her? Morwen recoiled from the flow of her thoughts, flooded with guilt. Her rational mind knew she could not blame Randir for any of this. She knew exactly whom she ought to blame. But sometimes anger came easier than grief. It found relief in exertion. It was its own fuel. Grief held on like a cancer and drained the life away. It left Morwen so tired.

And she felt tired of feeling tired. She needed to be clear-headed, alert, and decisive. Morwen pressed her fingers into her eyes, trying to put an end to this circular thinking.

"Finish dressing. Dinner will be ready before long."

Morwen jumped, having forgotten all about Gildis. The wet clothes were in her arms and she had one hand on the door handle.

"I'm not hungry."

Gildis frowned. "No, but your guest is. He shouldn't eat alone."

Morwen had forgotten Guthere, too. It was the first instance where she regretted talking Thengel into letting him stay. A selfish instance because it was one more obstacle to the solitude her low spirits desired.

Perhaps Guthere felt low, too, without his companions, Morwen reflected. Gildis was right. She had a duty. And a sense of duty, like anger, provided a sort of recourse.

…

Guthere waited at the table when Morwen arrived in the hall. He stared vaguely into the fire but looked up when she pulled out the chair next to him. Guthere tried clumsily to rise but she waved him back into his seat.

"So Hareth's sour looks haven't kept you away," she quipped, taking in his somber expression.

Guthere shrugged. "The Rohirrim don't back down so easily."

No? Morwen wondered. Instead, she said, "Not even when your companions have left you to fend for yourself, I see."

"I'd rather stay here with you, mistress, than face what they will face in Minas Tirith."

Morwen blinked. "And what is that?"

"It's the prince's birthday soon. He never stays in Minas Tirith during this time of year. Avoids it like the Black Breath."

"His birthday?" Morwen stared. She had heard of many strange fears, but to avoid one's birthday?

"I guess you haven't heard what it's like," Guthere said, reading her expression. He passed a shaky hand over his eyes. "It's a nightmare. Each year Marshal Oswin, That's Thengel's uncle, comes with half the Riddermark."

"Riddermark?"

"Er, that's what we call Rohan, you see."

"Ah. And what exactly is the marshal's relationship to the king? I mean, I know the general idea of a marshal, but what is a marshal in Rohan? It sounds important if he is related to Prince Thengel."

"Er, well. Er. A marshal is our highest-ranking warrior, you could say. It's always been the king and he would assign others as needed. But Fengel King prefers the title without having to do the actual mustering the riders in Edoras. With some pressure, he agreed to assign a second and third marshal. One in the Eastemnet and one in the West."

"What is an emnet?"

"Well, they're the plains of Rohan divided by the Entwash."

"So the marshal has some kind of authority over your warriors in these locations."

"Yes. King's first marshal over all Mark and the land is divided between the second marshal and the third. Marshal Oswin is the second marshal of Riddermark. He dwells in the Eastfold in the old fortress at Aldburg. It was founded by Eorl himself."

"And the Marshal is the king's brother?"

"No, he is Queen Wynlaf's brother. Fengel's only brothers were killed at the Battle of Poros long before you were born. Folcred ought to have been king. It might have gone easier for Thengel."

"He wouldn't be in exile, you mean?"

"Yes, and considerably more personal freedom. He'd be a common rider, like myself."

"He would still be the son of princes," Morwen observed.

"The son of the third son who isn't much liked." Guthere shrugged. "Rohan is a smaller country, my lady. Almost everyone can trace their lineage to a king's bairns. We don't make too much of it after a few degrees."

Morwen rose to bring some wine from the chest near the windows.

"I wish you could have talked to my father. He would find this very interesting. In Gondor we study our heritage very closely and all the nuances and intricacies of birth and alliance. My father wrote and corrected genealogies for most of his life under Steward Turgon's appointment."

"Gladhon said you were related to the Prince of Dol Amroth."

Morwen smiled. "I was not allowed to forget it growing up. My father, Randir, he kept meticulous correspondences with his cousins, always believing those connections were always worth preserving. Prince Angelimir even commissioned him to translate Numenorean poetry for him, which was no small feat, since it meant taking time away from his precious genealogies."

"Was he a proud man?" Guthere asked.

The question surprised Morwen and she had to think about it. "Not proud in himself, but he had pride in his lineage. He didn't have that smallness of character that some men have who are eaten up with pride. At least, I never observed it."

"If he served the Steward, I wonder why Prince Thengel never met him?"

"Perhaps they did, though Prince Thengel never indicated it. My father might not make an impression on a foreign prince moving in Captain Ecthelion's circles. He wasn't remotely a warrior. He married my mother and moved to Lossarnach before your prince arrived. His trips to Minas Tirith were shorter and usually for specific business or to visit Prince Angelimir during his stays in the city. And in the years after my mother's death, my father only took to traveling to Minas Tirith during the spring around this time. He would ride up with our cousin Adrahil and return after two weeks. It sounds like Prince Thengel wasn't around then."

Guthere snorted. "They would just miss one another."

"So, the queen's brother, the Marshal, comes every year with half the Riddermark for Prince Thengel's birthday. But I would think Prince Thengel would like to see his own people. It seems more strange that the king would allow it."

"Well, it's a necessity, isn't it?"

"How?"

"It's an excuse to round up all the girls and show them off a bit."

"Show them off?"

"So Prince Thengel can marry one of them, of course. King's got to have a queen.

"The Marshal brings him brides? Sort of like a market day?"

Guthere grinned. "That's hitting it on the head."

"But why?"

"You know, so the line doesn't end and then we have to dig a new row of barrows."

"Barrows?"

"Start a new line of kings, if you will. It's a saying. Though we're not overly fond of the one we've got right now, I'm only saying." He flushed. "I'd be grateful if you'd keep that last bit to yourself."

"So you are saying that when he left here, that's what he's going toward?" That was the duty he'd neglected?

"Cenhelm hopes so. It would take the load off."

"What load?"

"Having to tell the king that his heir died on Cenhelm's watch. And that he'll have to start all over again."

"Oh," she said dully. "I suppose it's late for that."

"For Queen Wynlaf yes. The king has cousins and nephews but that gets tricky. The king has alienated most of them one way or another. His own daughters won't see him unless it's by royal order."

"I've heard only a little bit about King Fengel," she admitted. "But Prince Thengel seems very different?"

"I wouldn't have credited it until I saw him for myself."

"You didn't like Prince Thengel?"

"Not till I met him. He's a good leader. But in the Mark, you have to understand, there's a bit of resentment because he's gone off and become a Gondorian. It's not right." He noticed her expression and amended, "I mean, nothing wrong with Gondor. It's just, you want a king not a foreigner."

"Surely they understand that he left under special circumstances."

"Oh, they know and all. But there are three things the Rohirrim excel at. Horse breeding, fighting, and resentment. We're good at brewing too, but we really excel at resentment. Long memories and short tempers."

She smiled tightly, since he seemed to be joking. "What a cheerful place."

"Aye, we like it well enough. Even the swampy bits, which if memory serves, your Steward failed to mention in his pact with Eorl. The size of that fen is considerable. And there's the creepy, haunted wood full of menace, which he also didn't bring up. And the Dunlendings. Speaking of lines ending, they're a nasty piece of work. But overall we're pretty well satisfied."

"I am…happy to hear it." Then she asked, "How long has this birthday practice been going on? It seems he's taking his time with choosing brides."

"Oh, about three years ago, I'd say. My niece went the first year, but said it was a waste of time."

"Why was it a waste of time?"

"He ignored them and slipped out of the city only half way through their stay."

"You mean he runs away from them? Is he afraid to get married?"

"Oh, he's not afraid. Prince Thengel just doesn't like to be told what to do."

"I can hardly blame him for that," Morwen muttered. She had a disappointing thought and asked lightly, "I suppose he has many duties to attend to in Minas Tirith."

Guthere snorted. "Oh yes, when he wants to. He doesn't like to be pinned down."

"Guthere, did he use my cousin's Hardang's death as a pretext to come to Lossarnach to escape his uncle?"

Guthere shifted uncomfortably, realizing he'd fallen into a trap.

"Didn't he?" she pressed.

"Don't think badly of him. The king wants him for an exile and a puppet at the same time. It has forced him to be mean, at times, and to act against his conscience."

Morwen couldn't help feeling resentful. Not that he had intended to meet her at all and include her in his escape from duty. That had been an accident. But to think of him coming to Ferneth in Arnach to express sympathy when all he wanted to do was escape the tedium of a royal visit rankled her feelings. The picture of him in her mind began to fill in a little more. She remembered Halmir warning her about him the night of the banquet, but admitting he might have been right - even a smidge - only irritated her further.

And yet, she understood how it felt to be hemmed in and have one's choices limited by other people's interests. Admittedly, the feeling was new. She wanted to resent Thengel for turning her into an unplanned prop in his attempt to distract himself from his duties. But would she do better as Halmir's stay lengthened? Maybe.

Guthere was asking her a question, but she didn't hear until the end.

"Pardon?"

"Do you go to Minas Tirith much?"

"Yearly. I do not like it," she said decisively. "But it is more convenient to meet my cousins there than in Dol Amroth. And we have the summer fruit markets. I have not been there since last summer." Then she said, "My father died in the city and we buried him there."

Guthere winced. "I'm sorry. When did he die?"

"A year ago today."

"Oh."

Morwen half-wished she hadn't said anything. The point in leaving her room wasn't to make her guest feel badly about her father. Shifting the attention away from herself, she asked, "So you a niece. Do you have any children of your own?"

"Who, me? No. None of the lads have wives or children. Well, Cenhelm was married once but she died of some illness years ago. The married warriors are disqualified from the prince's guard on account of the hardship it would bring to their families if they left for Gondor for three years."

Morwen nodded. "I hadn't thought of that, but it makes sense. You must miss your home."

Guthere shrugged. "There are moments, mostly in Minas Tirith. But when we're in camp it's not so different."

The front door opened, interrupting their conversation. Halmir and his shadow, Hundor, entered. They sat down at the table. Not long after, Ioneth came out with their meal.

"Ah, you see Hundor, we are not yet late for dinner."

Hundor shrugged.

"Where is the rest of your guest party?" Halmir asked. "Still waiting for them?"

"You haven't heard yet that Prince Thengel left for Minas Tirith this morning?"

Halmir's expression brightened. "Did he indeed? I didn't know that. Although they seem to have left one behind."

Guthere shrugged.

"Keeping an eye on the prince's interests, perhaps?" Halmir asked.

"He is still recovering from his accident," Morwen said coolly. "And where have you been all day?" Keeping an eye on your interests? she thought.

"Hundor and I rose early to make a pilgrimage to Anarion's well. They must have left after we were gone."

A territorial tremor ran down Morwen's spine. "What were you doing at the well?"

"We each left a token in memory of Hardang. He always enjoyed that place. And since it has been a year to the day we lost Randir, we left a little something for him as well."

Morwen frowned. "Why didn't you ask me to come too?"

Halmir looked down his nose at her and sniffed. "I did not think accompanying us would appeal to you."

Hundor said, "Besides, you can go whenever you want."

She stared, dumbfounded. Plates of food were brought in and distributed by Ioneth in silence.

"We should be able to put aside our grievances to honor your brother and my father together."

"I am happy to hear you think so," Halmir answered. "It gives me hope of future cooperation between us."

Morwen bit her tongue, too tired for a fight. She wanted to eat quickly, then escape to the safety of Randir's library to sort through all the different emotions that had settled over her throughout the day and to remember all the good times she had spent in there. Now that it had been vacated by Thengel.

"By the way," said Halmir. "Now that your father's rooms are empty, I don't think you'll mind if I take over. There are some volumes in his study I would like to look at for a project I'm working on. I read so late into the evening, you know, that I would be disturbing everyone creeping back and forth to my room. And he has that nice, large desk. The little table in my room is hardly sufficient to support a book and my notes."

"Then I can move into Halmir's room," Hundor said, "my quarters are too cramped. I should say, the quarters I have been given. My usual room was taken by someone else."

He cast a dark look in Guthere's direction, who was too busy eating to notice or care.

"Both of you will stay put," she said.

"Oh? Why?"

"Because Prince Thengel is coming back," she said firmly. "He will need it."

Even Guthere looked at her then. His fork was still in his mouth.

"Why?"

She nearly said to collect Guthere, which would be the truth. But instead she said, "Because I have invited him back and he promised he would."

Morwen let the implication, whether or not it was actually the truth, hang in the air. Halmir could eat his paranoia for dinner.


	16. Prodigal

Thengel glared at the looming walls of the Rammas Echor where a cluster of black and silver liveried guards stood in attendance beneath a dripping sky. The air felt cool enough, but the soupy spring weather made everything stick to Thengel's skin and caused him to sweat.

The portion of wall along the South Road looked in such disrepair that Thengel wondered why they bothered to post anyone at the checkpoint. Any traveler with the least ambition to climb over the Rammas Echor undetected need only tread a mile or so off the road to find a gap in the stone and mortar. When Thengel asked Ecthelion about it years ago, his friend merely shrugged and said the real defense lay in Ithilien anyway.

And what if the threat ever came from the river? Thengel had asked.

Anyone wanting to invade Gondor's southern flank will remember what happened at Poros, my friend, and think better of it, Ecthelion replied.

That was an expensive victory for my people, Thengel had wanted to say. It cost the king's heir and his twin brother, leaving the throne their younger brother, Fengel. But how could Thengel say so without sounding embittered? And so the wall crumbled on.

They passed the guards who eyed Thengel's small company shyly, offering idle remarks on the bad weather and a few hesitant welcomes. Men who didn't work with Thengel's outfit didn't know what to think of him or his honor guard. Was he one of them or not? He wore the white tree when he fought, didn't he?

Through the gate, the trees thinned out, opening into the pale green plain of Pelennor. Conversation along the road had been sporadic at best, but it picked up again now they were on familiar turf. Thengel wondered if each of the other men felt they were slinking away from awkward family business they had no right to witness, like he did. If so, then the closer they drew to the White City the more they seemed to forget. Gladhon and Thurstan were beginning to see the humor in their brief stay in Imloth Melui. Gladhon went so far as to admit feeling envious of Guthere's position.

"Guthere will grow spoiled," he said.

"If you wish to convalesce in Lady Morwen's household," Cenhelm said gravely, "first you must face the old crone with the chisel and hammer."

Gladhon paled. Neither he nor Thurstan were present for the surgery, but he knew Nanneth from growing up in the valley. He had also seen her handiwork on Guthere.

Thengel rode ahead of the others toward the high gates of the seven-story mountain spur that rose into a haze of low clouds. Gladhon could try anyone's patience. Besides, he wanted a moment to himself while he could still enjoy the luxury. He felt that the nearer they rode toward Minas Tirith, the nearer he came to duty, that constant thumb that pinned down his hopes and reminded him that home was like the little lights in a swamp. Enticing but ultimately unreachable. Oppressive in its elusiveness.

Remembering the brief reprieve in Morwen's presence did little to alleviate his dread going forward. The way he left Bar-en-Feren still did not sit well with him. He had studied Morwen's profile, the icy line of her lips, and the way she had stubbornly refused to look at him while he made excuses. Her feelings were hurt and she wasn't going to allow it to happen again. In that instant, he had recognized the resemblance between Morwen and her cousin Adrahil in her bearing. It reminded him of the proud woman who had stood over Guthere's side even though the sight of blood made her ill.

Not all shields could be held in hand, Thengel reflected, but they were shields nonetheless. He simply hadn't expected she would need one where he was concerned. It bothered Thengel. And yet, he thought cynically, he would soon forget that uncomfortable feeling soon enough. He always did.

…

The road met the thoroughfare from the Harlond the traffic to and from the city. They could see the great gates of Minas Tirith looking dull in the gloom. Cenhelm road up beside Thengel, taking his customary place at the prince's right hand. Thurstan rode closely behind.

"Look," said Gladhon, pointing ahead. "Pages. They've spotted you."

"We haven't passed the Old Guesthouse yet," Cenhelm muttered to Thengel with only a trace of sarcasm. "Brace yourself."

Thengel followed Cenhelm's line of sight. He saw two boys rush through the gates, to the annoyance and snarls of the guards posted there. One boy had straw-colored hair and the other had hair the color of crows and dressed in black and silver livery. Thengel watched as they tried to outpace each other, kicking up dirt and garbage behind, splashing through puddles, until they disappeared around the curve in the city wall. Who would be the first to inform either the Marshal or the Steward that the prodigal had returned?

"Gladhon, I bet you ten silver pieces that Marshal Oswin hears the news first," Thurstan ribbed, unwittingly mirroring Thengel's thoughts.

"If I ever have ten silver pieces in my purse at one time, friend," Gladhon's lips curled around the word, "I'd rather present them to a worthy publican than hand them over to you."

Thurstan smiled crookedly. "So you admit the little Gondorian is slower?"

"I didn't say that."

"Yet you refuse to wager."

"What do the Rohirrim know about running? You're all so short you need a horse to do it for you."

"Not too short to introduce you to my boot…"

Thengel tuned out the growing argument between his guards by minding the market day hum around him. He breathed in the stink of the first level, immediately propelled backward into his first memories of entering the city. At eighteen, his first impression was of piss and hot southern spices. Now that stench had stamped itself into his brain so that every time entered the city he felt eighteen again. Perhaps less afraid after 20 years, but still burdened.

The horses passed through the crush of bodies as one. There was always heavy traffic in the first level, of vendors coming to and from market, changing patrols, and wains carrying the cargo coming in from the Harlond. But it wasn't until the upper levels that the tone of the traffic changed and Thengel could pick out golden and auburn heads beneath the taller, straighter Gondorians with their black and brown hair. The conversation in the street blended and then fractured into a cacophony of voices, questions, demands, interjections in a language that both flowed and elbowed its way out of one's throat.

"Se Æþeling!"

"Hwelc beorn?"

"Ic ne wisse. Ic I seah hem naefre.*

"What are the foreigners saying?" Thengel heard a Gondorian housewife shout from a window.

"How should I know?" her neighbor answered.

"Thengel Æþeling!"

It reached a crescendo when they neared the stables in the sixth circle and were greeted by a delegation of straw-headed men, gathered together after news from the forerunners had spread. Naturally the place to find a horse lord was at the one public stable in the city of pedestrians.

Hands reached up to grab at Thengel's cloak. They received sharp checks with the sheathed, flat side of a hunting knife Cenhelm kept tucked in his belt.

"Now everyone stand back and give the prince some room." Cenhelm repeated the order in Rohirric.

To Thengel's relief, citadel guards appeared through the archway to quell the crowd.

The relief ended abruptly when a voice as old and deep as stone bellowed, "Thengel Fengelson! To me."

The mob parted around a man, clearly old, but remarkably hale. His hair was tied back in three heavy, white braids. On the man's hauberk, partially obscured by his long beard, stood a device of the lords of Aldburg, knotwork of two rampant horses embossed in gold.

Marshal Oswin.

Thengel felt his uncle's appraisal, but the man's eyes gave away neither approval nor disapproval. He didn't know what to do with…nothing. Whatever concessions Thengel had made to Cenhelm back in the peace of Imloth Melui, he now heartily regretted it.

"It is good to see you, sister-son, even with that deranged expression on your face." His accent was thick in Thengel's ears, yet he spoke as someone at home with the Common Tongue. "Has something disturbed your state of mind?"

"Too much humidity," Thengel replied. Easier to admit that then to the internal conflicts his uncle always evoked. He attempted to rearrange his face, but since he had no idea what he looked like, he gave up.

…

All men, Gondorian and Rohirrim alike, melted away in Oswin's presence. Stabling the horses turned into a quiet affair. Even the ostler couldn't be found.

Thengel's residence lay between two abandoned houses on the sixth level nearest the stables. The uppity Gondorian nobles who once occupied each house complained about the horsey smells and the bad humors they produced. No other owners could be tempted. At least, that's the reason for abandonment that Ecthelion gave Thengel years ago when he bought his place. Thengel liked the proximity to the stable, if only for the privacy from neighbors. In the summer though, the smell did tend to raise its head off the sunbaked stone and blow raspberries.

"I suppose you would like an account of our movements," Thengel said to Oswin as they passed into the small courtyard.

"Tomorrow," Oswin answered genially, "after you've had a rest. I will hear Cenhelm's report first."

Thengel frowned. Was this a report as Thengel's handler or as the leader of an honor guard? He looked at Cenhelm, who stared stoically ahead, and caught Oswin doing the same. Cenhelm had the unfortunate job of maneuvering between a rock and a hard place as long as the Marshal's visit lasted. Thengel almost felt sorry for him.

Eriston, Thengel's seneschal, stood at the bottom of the stairs to greet them. When they were nearer, the old servant bowed.

"Welcome home, my lord."

Thengel tried not to flinch at the word home. In Oswin's presence, it embarrassed him.

"Thank you, Eriston." Thengel took a closer look at the man. He looked drawn and pale. Oswin could have that effect on people. "Are you well?"

"Perfectly well, my lord," Eriston said weakly.

Thengel decided to have a word later with his uncle.

Once inside, Oswin and Cenhelm disappeared into the adjoining room. With a nod, Thengel dismissed Gladhon and Thurstan, who wandered up the stairs to their rooms. This left him alone with Eriston who had a tendency to melt into the background like a decorative column.

Thengel remained just inside the door with Eriston torn between standing attendance and wanting to shut it.

"Did you have a pleasant journey, my lord?"

"It was eventful, at least," Thengel answered, half distracted. Then he said, "There's something off here."

Eriston's gray eyebrows drifted toward his hairline. "Is there, my lord?"

"Yes." Thengel walked deeper into the corridor and looked over every inch of space. It all looked the same. Just a long passage with a row of doors on one side, the stairs on the other that led to the second and third floors, and at the end the door he assumed lead to the kitchen. At least, that's where the food smell came from. He never bothered to find out for certain, which suited Eriston just fine. The seneschal liked to keep definite lines drawn between where Thengel belonged and where the servants belonged. In Rohan, lines like that were used for playing hopscotch, especially since most everyone was related to each other by some degree. He had a distinct memory of being paddled as a child by the cook in Meduseld, a distant cousin on his mother's side, after he'd taken a few liberties with a meat pie intended for his father. Come to think of it, she probably received a lot worse than a paddling when Fengel noticed the pie's absence at the evening meal.

His mind returned to the present and his eyes told him that the house looked totally unaltered. And yet, he could feel some shift in the atmosphere.

"What has been going on here since my uncle arrived, Eriston?"

Eriston's cheeks turned a delicate pink. "Forgive me, my lord, but the Marshal has seldom been in residence since his arrival last week. I believe he has been mainly with the Steward." The servant tried to reach for Thengel's bags.

"I've got them," Thengel muttered.

Eriston sniffed as Thengel passed him for the stairs. "Shall I prepare the bath, sir?"

"Tomorrow. Just a bowl of water for now."

For some unknown reason - call it instinct - Thengel didn't want to leave his uncle unsupervised for too long. It was a case of keep your enemies close and your tyrannical relatives closer lest they plot in your absence.

…

Thengel dressed after his bath the next morning. The corridors were silent as he descended to the rooms where his uncle had taken up residence in his absence. The door to the study stood open and he sniffed appreciatively at the warm, spiced smell of breakfast.

The study had transformed into a military camp. His desk had a map draped over it and a few others rolled on top. Oswin's battle gear commanded one corner, while another sported a collapsible stool.

"Good morning," he said. "Shall I help you raise a tent in here too?"

Oswin turned away from a tray of dark sausages to cast his heavy gaze on Thengel. The older man's eyes were milkier blue than Thengel remembered.

"Good morning to you, Thengel," Oswin said affably. "Help yourself. I had Eriston bring breakfast in here."

He wasn't sure he liked how Oswin had adopted his servants as his own, but he was too tired to complain. After all, it meant not waiting for food. But he did have one observation to make.

"Why not eat breakfast in the dining room? That's what it's for."

Oswin gave him a sharp look. "I don't hold with rooms having one purpose. Waste of space."

Thengel scratched the back of his neck. "What about bedrooms?"

"Being a bachelor, I suppose you wouldn't know better," Oswin retorted.

Thengel shrugged.

He helped himself to a sausage and a few hothouse grapes before he trusted himself to speak again. When he did, he said, "So, you didn't bring half the Riddermark."

Oswin nodded. "You noticed they were all soldiers."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you with the lack of fanfare this year, but you see, you never come. It's hard to convince women and their fathers to travel a fourth time when you've managed to evade them all before. "

"So you came by yourself?"

"Well, someone should be on hand for your birthday. After all, this marks twenty years that you've been away." Oswin set his plate down. "And I've brought you a gift."

He walked to a side table and picked up a simple wooden box with a bronze clasp. Opening the lid, he lifted a silver horn resting on a soft linen pillow. He held it out to Thengel.

"The Horn of the Mark."

The heirloom had belonged to Eorl. Generations of kings had passed it down to their sons. Thengel had to stop himself from sighing at the sight of it. He wiped his hands on his tunic before he picked it up and cradled it. It felt much lighter and smaller than when he had last held it. The runes and knotwork etched into the metal were as clear now as when he had first seen it.

He remembered having to sneak into his father's bedchamber as a small boy and ferreting out the box from where the king had hidden it under the bed. Thengel had learned at a young age that Fengel did not take kindly to his heir handling the treasures reserved for the king. Those were the early signs of his father's paranoia. Bile rose in Thengel's throat along with an implication.

He studied Oswin's impassive face. "Why are you giving this to me now? It must be important."

"Of utmost importance."

Thengel's heart guttered like a candle flame in a breeze. "Fengel King—"

Oswin's beard twitched. "Is alive and well, if somewhat bilious. That is not why I brought it."

The adrenaline rolled off of Thengel like water from a duck's back. He took series of deep breaths before his heart slowed down. He could watch an old woman pop off a piece of Guthere's skull without a twitch, but the possibility of a coronation made his hands shake. Thengel sat down in the nearest chair, still cupping the horn.

"Good news, then. Have a seat." He hooked his boot around the leg of the nearest straight-backed chair and dragged it toward his uncle.

Oswin accepted the seat and took his time observing his nephew. "Wynlaf wanted you to have it, truth be told," he admitted.

Thengel used his tunic to studiously polish off a bit of finger grease from the silver lip. He didn't look up when he asked, "How is mother?"

Oswin said nothing. What had Thengel expected? That between her husband and her son she felt rung out and at her wits end? He realized he couldn't remember the sound of her voice, that over the years even in his memory of their conversations, she had begun to sound like Oswin. Perhaps if she had learned to read and write then Thengel would have her own letters to keep her voice and tone alive in his memory. But very few of the Rohirrim ever learned to speak Westron, let alone to read and write. He sometimes regretted the oral aspect of their traditions. It made his isolation that much more complete when every piece of news from home had to be translated by his uncle, a soldier.

"Why did she choose the horn?" Thengel asked. He turned the heirloom over in his hands. It felt strange to have it here in Minas Tirith and he half wished to make Oswin take it away again. Stranger still, he hadn't known how hungry he felt for a memento of Rohan.

"She thought her son might need the reminder of his duty to the Mark."

Thengel remembered Oswin telling him that Queen Wynlaf had a way of maneuvering the king when she thought it was worth the effort. He hadn't believed his uncle then, but he was beginning to see it for himself. Oswin alone couldn't have managed so many concessions on his nephew's behalf without aid.

Maybe the queen believed she could maneuver Thengel as well. The thought rankled him. He got up, replaced the horn on the cushion and closed the lid over the so-called reminder of duty. He let the anger pass through his fingers until he felt empty. Then he tried to swallow whatever pride he still possessed in the presence of the man who had seen him at his worst.

"I've been thinking about that," he finally answered. "My duties."

Oswin's bushy eyebrows lifted and he looked keenly at Thengel. "Have you? Well. We will talk about that soon." He waved a beefy hand in an airy fashion as if it were neither here nor there. "Sit down a moment. I want to hear what you have been up to. Your rare letters contain so little. Where did you say you had been?"

Thengel remained standing. Something about Oswin's carefree attitude did not sit right with him. He would wait for the hammer to fall while on his feet. "I didn't say. Perhaps Cenhelm told you last night?"

"He was circumspect in his report." Oswin pursed his lips in a sour fashion. "I will also point out that the Steward said he didn't know where you'd gone. I know you are past the age of needing a guardian, but I will tell you that did not please me."

Thengel tried to imagine the look of displeasure on Turgon's face after being grilled by Fengel King's marshal as to the whereabouts of the Steward's former charge.

"He didn't know."

"How is that possible? Are you not one of his captains?"

"I report to Ecthelion." Thengel retrieved a few more grapes, his back to Oswin. "I don't tell Turgon so he doesn't have to lie to you."

"You think he would?" Oswin asked sharply.

"Not directly. He can be evasive when he wants to. That's what stewards do."

Oswin harrumphed. "So where were you?"

"Lossarnach."

Thengel paced across the room, popping grapes in his mouth and stretching some of the muscles that were beginning to cramp after riding all day. He used to be able to ride longer without barely feeling a twinge after a few stretches. He didn't want to reflect too long on how that was changing over time.

"Lossarnach." Oswin pulled at his beard. "A fief south of the mountain, north of the river. East of Poros. Decent, arable land."

Thengel gave him a suspicious look. He hadn't expected his uncle to have an encyclopedic knowledge of the fiefs of Gondor. He turned on his heel to look at Oswin's map on the desk. Sure enough, the inked lines of Gondor stood out fresh from the stiff velum. Had the maps been made for Oswin here in the week or so of his stay? Why?

"What brought you to verdant Lossarnach?"

Thengel backed away from the map to face Oswin. "I wished to honor a fallen friend whose family resides there."

"And to avoid me." Oswin pursed his lips.

Thengel never pretended otherwise. "More or less," he said.

"And did you honor your friend, at least?"

Thengel cringed. "No. Well, not directly. We met with an accident. Guthere was brained by a tree."

"Cenhelm did mention that. How is your man recovering?"

"Well, I think. We left him in the best possible care."

"Where?"

"Oh, in Imloth Melui."

"What in Bema's name is that?" Oswin said roughly.

"It's the name of the valley. Sindarin…something to do with flowers, I believe."

"Hmph. Incomprehensible elf tongue. Still, it has a nice ring to it. Imol Mew," Oswin garbled. "Hmm. And you left him there alone?"

Thengel shook his head and passed to the drink stand. "He is in good hands. Want a drink?"

"No. In whose hands did you leave him?"

Thengel smiled privately while his back was turned. "A friend's. I shall have to go back there soon to collect him again."

He found himself looking forward to it, until he remembered Halmir. How long until that mess cleared up? he wondered. Maybe he would write to Guthere for news, or to Morwen herself. Come to think of it, perhaps he had been too hasty in leaving.

Come to think of it, why was any of it his problem? Did he want it to be his problem?

"What are all these, eh?"

Thengel turned to see Oswin perusing a pile of books he had left lying out on an end table before he had ridden off to Lossarnach. His uncle picked one and leafed through a few pages, going the wrong direction.

Thengel squinted over his shoulder at the pages. "Eh. Numenorean death poems. Wait, let me see that." He turned to the title page and read, "translated by Lord Randir of Lossarnach." He stared off at nothing. "Huh."

"Does that mean something to you?"

It did now. It hadn't when he received all the second-hand books from Ecthelion. He handed the volume back to Oswin.

"Who is this fellow?" Oswin asked.

"I never knew him. He's dead."

"Not as a result of this morbid subject, I hope," said Oswin dryly.

Thengel grew thoughtful. "Actually, the poems were beautiful to read." He wondered if Morwen had read her father's work. Maybe he would bring her the copy. He couldn't recall seeing one in the little library in Bar-en-Ferin.

The book in Oswin's hand shut with a clap. "Reading. Hmph. And I suppose you know our own songs too?"

Thengel sighed. He ought to have known better, he felt, than to walk right into one of Oswin's traps. "How can I memorize Rohirric songs when I can't hear them?" he groused. "You forbade me to have any transcribed."

Oswin looked aghast. "We've never written down any of our songs. I don't see why we should start for you," he said tartly. Then he added, as an afterthought, "I shall send you a bard."

"Don't bother. I haven't the time."

Oswin made a guttural sound in his throat. "No time? You can distinguish yourself Gondor's army but you have no time to learn about your own country's culture." He gestured among the piles of books within the room. "Thengel, sometimes I'm ashamed of you."

Thengel shrugged and took a drink. He chanted, "Eala þeodnes þrym / Hu seo þrag gweat, genap under nihthelm / swa heo no wæra. / Stondeð nu on laste."**

"Not bad, although a little accented."

Thengel dropped his drink. The glass broke, accompanied by the musical tinkling of shards on stone. He turned on his heels toward the door where a woman had entered with the eerie skill of a ranger.

"Westu Thengel hal," she said with an icy grin. "Béma, you look old."

Thengel knew the woman standing before him, but his senses were confused. It was as if someone had taken a drawing of his sister and overlaid it with rough pencil sketches on wax paper of his mother. He could see her as he had always seen her in his mind, but now there was a hollowness in her cheeks and lines in her skin that tried to obscure his memory. The last time he had seen her, she was twenty-five summers and had hair the color of yellow corn. Now she was double that in age and her hair had faded somewhat over the years to the color of flax drying in a field. She had the red, wind-rough cheeks that all riders of the Mark developed over the years of traversing the plains.

"Wynflaed." That was all Thengel could manage for a long moment. He had known when he entered the house that something was different. Why hadn't Eriston told him?

"Eriston…"

Wynflaed waved her hand and his implied objection. "I gave him incentive to keep the surprise to himself."

With what violent end had she menaced the seneschal to keep him quiet? Thengel knew he had to think of a way to apologize to the man without upsetting his sensibilities. Nobody deserved to have Wynflaed happen to them.

The chair creaked as Oswin rose, looking pleased with himself. "I didn't bring half the Riddermark, as you say - but I did bring your sister. She will be staying behind when I leave. I have full confidence in her ability to handle the negotiations."

"Negotiations?" Thengel said stupidly.

Wynflaed grinned again and Thengel winced, waiting for the twist of the knife.

"Uncle Oswin has enlisted me to find you a princess, broþor min."*** She turned to Oswin. "You did give him the horn, didn't you?"

Thengel crossed his arms, the alternative being to grab a chair to ward her off like a lioness in an Umbarian traveling show. How desperate was his family to control him that they would send a shieldmaiden to act as a matchmaker? And Wynflaed to boot.

"Oh yes?" he growled. "And what will I be doing?"

"What you're good at," she answered with a voice as dry as birch bark. "Getting out of the way."

All right. Maybe he deserved that dig. But she could at least pretend to be a little pleased to see him after twenty years, Thengel groused inwardly.

And then he had another thought. "If you're ferretting out brides, then why did you come to Gondor?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: This is my clumsy attempt at piecing together Old English. Ye gods.
> 
> *Se Aetheling! = The Prince!
> 
> Hwelc beorn? = Which man?
> 
> Ic ne wisse… = I don't know. I never saw him.
> 
> ** "Alas for the splendor of the prince! How that time has passed away, dark under the cover of night, as if it had never been." Lines 64-67 from the Anglo-Saxon poem, The Wanderer. Thengel = little shit.
> 
> *** My brother.


	17. Stakes

The sun had crested the eastern ridge only hinting at its presence beneath a layer of clouds that had taken up permanent residence over the valley, along with the men from Arnach. Morwen strongly suspected - and it helped to vent her spleen - that Halmir brought the bad weather and it would only end upon his quitting the valley.

She mulled this over while she stood under the tree where Beldir's waist was just visible under the crown of pale leaves. A string of thunderstorms had made caring for the trees all but impossible since the festival. Now they had more fallen branches and the cherry trees looked depressed with their crowns stripped of blossoms and the leaves discolored in certain patches.

The tree shook in time with the growl of Beldir's handsaw. He wasn't one for long conversations, especially while working. Just when the sound of sawing would hypnotize her into a stupor, the wood cracked and another branch would fall to the ground. Although she would never admit to boredom in her beloved orchard, her nerves slowly unraveled with the repetition of stupor and startlement. Morwen found herself startled by wishing that Prince Thengel were with them, reading one of those books he liked.

Beldir swore when he jammed the handsaw in the wood and lost his grip on it. He shook his hand out.

"I still say Gundor trimmed this line," he groused.

Morwen stooped to retrieve a branch and cast it into the burn pile. Across the way, she caught the eye of Inzelbeth, one of the miller's daughters, who had the task of keeping Gundor's ladder upright and the boy along with it.

"You cannot use Gundor as a scapegoat every time something goes wrong."

Beldir gave her a look, which suggested he would certainly try.

"I'm surprised Hareth hasn't come at your for bullying him."

Beldir shrugged. "She knows the boy needs someone to whip him into shape."

"It could have just as easily been me," Morwen told him.

"You were not trimming trees last spring," Beldir reminded her.

No. Not with burying Randir and the myriad trips to Minas Tirith to settle his accounts. Those administrative duties she had felt all too glad to leave to Adrahil. The only good that came of last summer had been her growing ease with riding over long distances. Ease she probably hadn't retained over the winter.

A thought occurred to her. "Didn't Hardang send you one or two of his gardeners while I was away?"

Beldir looked down at her. "I forgot about them. They were not here long."

Morwen nodded and let the implication hang in the air between them. It didn't matter though who was responsible. Beldir would keep the trees healthy. She trusted him.

Beldir stopped sawing to take a drink of water from a jar he'd rigged to the ladder. "Look out."

Morwen turned in the direction of the gate. Halmir glided between a line of trees, so much like the wolf in old tales, with a bounce and flourish of some scroll he held. Morwen sighed and wished finding her proved more difficult for people. Routine made her an easy target for determined irritants.

"Up already?" she asked when he was within hearing range. Halmir didn't know what a sunrise looked like, or the taste of breakfast. Somehow her cousins didn't believe in mornings. Morwen thought she had left him back at the house, drooling on a pillow. The day couldn't be passing as quickly as that.

"Yes, moon of my delight. Old Gildis turned me out to change the bed clothes."

Morwen wondered if Gildis would take her suggestion to line the sheets with nettles. The housekeeper pretended to be shocked and dismissive, but Morwen could see the temptation softening the rigid lines of Gildis's mouth. If only she wasn't so upright all the time. Halmir had no qualms about tricks and threats and Morwen doubted they would be able to hold out much longer if they didn't stoop to his level.

"No matter, though," he continued. "I wanted to show you something that has just come from town." He grinned generously and his good mood made the fine hair on Morwen's arms prickle.

"A summons to return to Arnach?" she asked brightly. One could dare to hope.

Halmir laughed. "Oh no, you mistake me. I meant Minas Tirith." He laughed again. "I won't be leaving any time soon. On the contrary, what I hold in my hand will only cement my stay. Besides, Hundor informed me that the trees were not entirely healthy," he said with a grave expression. "How do things progress in the orchard, Beldir?"

Beldir grunted.

Morwen opened her mouth to challenge Halmir when she remembered that she had in fact supplied that information to Hundor during the feast. Odd, she hadn't thought Hundor was sober enough to recall it.

"The trees are well enough. Don't trouble yourself."

"Trouble myself? Morwen, as regent—"

"All right, yes," Morwen snapped. She grasped a ladder rung and called up to Beldir, "You may as well tell him what you told me."

Beldir climbed down. "Lot of dead bark on these three here. It's nothing we can't treat," he answered. "Fungus formed when we trimmed maybe over the last couple years, with this tree being the worst off."

"That's bad, is it?" Halmir asked.

"The bark keeps back the rot. Ignoring the bark, whoever trimmed here spread it around to some of the others. That's what I think happened, anyway. "

"That sounds very bad," said Halmir. "Will it kill them outright?"

"This season, no," Beldir told him. "But over time all these discolored folds you see here will weaken the trunk and branches if left alone. Rots from within. All it would take is a proper wind to topple the tree. And the fruit will suffer before that."

"Do what you must," said Halmir as he tucked the scroll into the crook of his elbow.

"We are," Morwen growled.

Beldir stared at Halmir before ignoring him and turning to Morwen. "What are your instructions, my lady?"

Morwen blinked stupidly at Beldir. They had already discussed their course of action. Did he forget? It wasn't until he winked at her that she realized that Beldir was deliberately signaling to Halmir where the true authority lay.

"Trim the branches with cankers," she told him. "Do you think a dressing will be necessary? We never decided."

Beldir shrugged. "I can make one up but the wounds usually close on their own. I would rather take care with the tools and leave the tree to the clean air."

"That's settled." Halmir clapped his hands together. "Now, Morwen I want a moment of your time. Eh, but I need a flat surface somewhere. Dais?"

He hooked her arm with his free one and guided her down the path toward the permanent structure in the center of the cherry trees.

"I meant to show you this at home…"

"In Arnach?" she gasped.

"No," he said with exasperation. "Home. The house. Here."

She bit her tongue. This wasn't his home and she didn't like how familiar he felt with Bar-en-Ferin.

"I wanted to show you in the study. That is the proper place," he muttered, sounding almost like her father, who had a strong ceremonial side, "but you stubbornly won't allow me to use it."

"I told you, Prince Thengel will return…"

"Yes, you've been saying that," he grumbled. "Oh well. You will get a better idea for the thing out of doors, perhaps."

They reached the dais, which had been stripped of its table and chairs until next year. Rather than climbing the steps, Halmir spread the scroll out over the driest patch of floor, careful to flick away a few leaves that had been blown there by the storms. He had to take out a penknife and a few stones he must have picked up along the way to keep the corners from curling in on themselves. When he finished, Morwen stood beside him and leaned over the parchment.

"You're learning how to draw?"

"Not I."

Halmir smoothed his hands over the patchwork of rectangles and squares and circles, beaming like a new father. The look of satisfaction drove away the devious angles that always haunted his lips and eyes. She almost thought happiness made him look kind.

"What is it, then?"

"Plans."

Her heart guttered. "What plans?"

"For the improvements I have in mind." His eyes grew sharp again. "Honestly, Morwen, how many times do I have to remind you," he drawled. "Come. I think you'll like them. A friend drew them up for me in Minas Tirith."

Stunned that Halmir had concrete ideas for the place, Morwen leaned against the dais for support.

"Tell me what you see."

Morwen squinted at the chart more carefully, trying to make sense of it. At first the raw outlines boggled her eyes, but she gave up trying to pick out a pattern. Once her eyes relaxed, suddenly she recognized the layout of her orchard, the house, and the outbuildings. A detailed blueprint of Bar-en-Ferin. It felt odd to see her home reduced to flat planes. And where had Halmir gotten all this information? Only, she spotted two terrible errors. She pointed them out.

"That's the top of the orchard," she said. "Not a building."

He smiled as if she had just told a joke. "Oh, I plan to knock that down. These hills are choked with apple trees," he said with a sweep of his hand over the chart.

Morwen's hands clenched into fists at her side and she drove her nails into her palms to keep calm. "Those apples are the oldest part of the orchard and our chief crop. We can't afford to knock them down. It's impossible and wasteful. Do you know we are the only suppliers for the House of Healing in Minas Tirith?"

He waved away her objections. "There are much closer orchards on the Pelennor, if it's the House of Healing you're worried about. Anyway, local produce is much more economical."

"You couldn't pay me to eat something grown on the Pelennor," she hissed. "And you do know that we grow a hybrid of apples you can't find anywhere else? My mother—"

"There's no need to be snobbish, Morwen. What are a few trees compared to hot and cold baths?"

"Baths?" she asked through gritted teeth.

"Baths." He pointed to the other wrong rectangle on the chart. "The beech grove between the house and the garden will have to go, as well.

"Halmir, this property is named after that beech grove."

Morwen felt like he had cut her with that same movement of his hand. Tear down beautiful, ancient beeches and healthy, profitable fruit trees for what? The senseless thought caused a pain in her stomach.

"To attract wealthy and influential visitors from Minas Tirith." He flipped to another chart beneath the first, a mechanical drawing that really confused her eyes. "See, underground fires warm vats of water and push steam through a series of pipes in one part of the bathhouse. Bathers can then enjoy the view of the trees while they relax." He drew invisible circles over the rectangle with his finger. "We could put Imloth Melui down in the lists for healthy attractions for convalescents and anyone trying to escape the heat of the city in summer. Baths, steam rooms, beautiful walks, flowers, fruit, fishing on the Erui. In the autumn we can attract hunters. Wouldn't Randir be proud of that?" He went on before she could object. "And here is the layout for a lodge and here for servants quarters."

"Only Hareth and Gildis and Beldir live here. The rest go home to their families."

"Of course. I mean more quarters. You know this plantation could produce twice as much if we only had the workers for it. Minas Tirith is teeming with men and women looking for better work. More hands mean you won't have to keep getting your own covered in dirt." He looked askance at her grubby dress. Not the garb he envisioned for the mistress of Bar-en-Ferin, Morwen thought.

"I like my hands covered in dirt." She moved away from him, turning to face the trees. "Halmir, everyone who works here lives in the valley. You can't just bring in a host of city folk without upsetting the balance. We have as many fruit trees as the estate can support and now you're talking of eliminating some of those." She leaned back on the table and looked at him closely. "Have you given Imloth Melui any thought as a living organism? A community? It's like you're in a strange fever dream."

Halmir flushed. "I'm not the one dreaming. Aren't you tired of living by the skin of your teeth?"

"I'm not ashamed of the way I live. You may not like it, but I do."

"Your father was the son of princes, Morwen, yet if the farm failed, how long would you survive?" He raked his fingers through his curls in frustration. "I thought you would want something tangible to show for your hard work. Something you could put in a treasury, not just a jar under your bed."

"Are we really talking about me or is this about you? I am content."

His eyes burned as he looked at her. "Then you are more foolish than I believed."

"Every farm has a bad season, Halmir. We lay by what we can so when bad years come we have something to survive on. That means no extravagant living and finding satisfaction in what we already have." She pointed to the phantom rectangle on the blueprint. "This scheme is extravagant. Even if I agreed to it, which I don't, neither of us has the funds."

He gave her a superior look. "I've already thought of that."

"No." She reached for the chart unceremoniously threw the plans onto the ground. It landed in a puddle. The paper turned the color of burnt butter as it soaked in the water.

Halmir rose to his feet in alarm, then shrugged. "No matter. I had copies made."

"Not a single tree will fall to make this happen. I won't allow it," she promised.

Halmir started to reply, but a clamor from the bottom of the slope stopped him. Raised voices floated up after. It sounded like a brawl. Morwen descended the slope at a run toward the gate with her cousin in tow.

When they reached the road and were close enough to discern the lawn surrounding the house, Morwen stopped short. Several tents were now smoldering piles of canvas. Cooking pots and commodes, and smoking packs containing whatever gear had been salvaged from the tents where now lying scattered around as if a family of bears had trashed the place.

A group of men stood over the ruins, arguing and shoving one another. She approached them without caution, feet fueled by her anger toward Halmir.

"What happened here?" she demanded.

"These fools lit a cooking fire between our tents and sent them up in blazes," a tall, dark man groused. Morwen recognized the soldier as one of the men who had sought out Prince Thengel during the feast. "Bloody farmhands don't know a thing about keeping camp—"

One of the bloody farmhands took exception to the epithet and swung an arm out to clobber the dark soldier. Morwen felt herself nudged out of the way and Adan appeared. He caught the arm mid-strike and didn't let go.

"That's enough, Enthor," Adan barked. "Salaben. Ornion. Cullastor. All of you clear out. You'll need to find someone to tent with. And remember, fires only in designated areas. Don't let me catch you doing anything so foolish again." He gave a black look to the men who started the fire.

When the men dispersed, Adan bowed his head to Morwen. "Forgive me, my lady. I will keep better order."

Halmir's eyes hooded suspiciously as he stared down his nose at the soldier. "I did not name you captain, Adan."

"No, my lord. You did not," Adan answered crisply. "But your appointed captain, Tullus, is lying drunk in his tent and none-the-wiser. I recall he was recruited in a pigsty behind a tavern."

Morwen threw her hands up. "A tavern. Wonderful."

Halmir sneered, but pretended to ignore her. "You are making a little too free, Adan. Watch yourself."

Adan gave him an ironic bow and stalked off.

The anger that rose in Morwen made her feel oddly cold and detached. She looked at the scorched earth and felt she didn't know the lawn as her own.

"Halmir, with me." Her voice sounded steady and sharp as ice. Something in it made Halmir obey without a word. They walked down the gravel drive toward the house. She turned and stopped him while they were out of earshot.

"I want you to look at this." She spread her arms wide over the once green forest between her house and the orchard. "What do you see?"

The men stirred within their tents. Despite the accident, some were starting fires to heat water in areas with a little more room between the tents. She imagined her lawn pockmarked with scorched grass and she ground her teeth together.

"Halmir, you have been here for a week. Who is going to keep that camp in good order?"

Halmir sniffed. "My men are self-sufficient."

"Yes, I can see that," she said acidly. "Sufficient at brawling, drinking, and burning."

"Remember, Morwen, they're only here as long as you want them. You could send them all away with a word. I've unfolded all my plans to you. Once you consent to marry me, these men will march home within the hour."

Morwen folded her arms against herself like a shield. "I can't believe you don't see how twisted that is."

Halmir shrugged. "A means to an end."

"Meaning this retreat of yours?" Morwen bristled. "Even if I agreed - and I don't - we can't afford to feed all these men for much longer, let alone build. Have you thought this through at all beyond blueprints?"

Halmir unhooked a pouch, heavily laden, from his belt and spilled out a sampling of its contents into his hand. Gold coins winked dully beneath the clouds.

Morwen's hand flew to cover his, hiding the gold from any onlookers. Her eyes scanned the dooryard to make sure no one else had seen the coins. There lay enough money to pay for Bar-en-Ferin on the spot between what Halmir held in his palm and the pouch. And he casually kept it on his belt? Her stomach roiled.

"Where on earth did you get all of this?" she hissed. She imagined an empty storehouse in Arnach where all of Hardang's treasures must have gone missing, liquidated to supply Halmir's schemes. How quickly had he acted after his brother's death?

"Don't look so alarmed. I've enlisted investors," Halmir said glibly. He pulled his hand away from hers and emptied the coins back into the pouch.

"Investors?" she parroted.

"Yes, there happens to be a group of my friends who like my scheme for Bar-en-Ferin and have therefore agreed to help finance it."

Morwen felt her throat closing up. "You did not take their money."

He looked sorry for her stupidity. "Of course I did. Why shouldn't I? It's a brilliant scheme. I'll be able to repay them with interest within a few years of opening. Do you know what folk in Minas Tirith would be willing to pay for a quiet refuge in Lossarnach's fabled valley during the heat of summer?"

"During the height of harvest and markets?" Morwen pinched the bridge of her nose. "No, and I don't care. You hadn't even spoken to me yet when you accepted this money."

He gave her a cold look. "Truly, it never crossed my mind that you would be so obstinate."

Morwen walked away from Halmir on unsteady legs. She sat down on the doorstep slowly and tried to breath. Stars and Valar and Sea kings. These friends of Halmir's could not connect the loans of money to her, surely. That is, they couldn't possibly see Morwen as equally responsible to repay. Could they?

"What guarantee did you give them?" she asked.

"My name, of course."

"And mine?"

Halmir stared down his nose at her as if realizing he'd lost some ground. "No. How could I until we're married?"

Morwen sighed in relief. That, she promised, would never happen. Certainly not now that marrying Halmir meant marrying his debt. Some children grew up with stories of big, bad wolves and goblins. Her parents told one horror story, of the ruin debt placed on a farm. Lean years would come, they'd said, so live sensibly during years of plenty and make the yields last. Staying out of debt would always prove easier than getting out of it.

She hadn't liked Halmir's scheme for sentimental reasons, but now she had to take a moral stand on it. The scheme would ruin the plantation and likely sink Halmir - and he wanted to take her down with him. She recognized his proposals for what they were, merely the guarantee he sought to make the scheme happen and to reassure his friends. Morwen felt certain of that. After all, he hadn't pretended to be in love with her.

"And if you can't repay them, then what?" she asked.

"That is for me to worry about," he answered stiffly. "And if all goes well, it will be a moot point."

"I recommend you ride back to Minas Tirith right now and return the money to your friends before you lose their good will," she said tiredly. "Turning the orchard into a…a haven can't succeed. It's a working farm and everyone in the valley depends on it in one way or another. Altering the plantation would be harmful to all the families here. You also know very well that Arnach receives a generous portion from our yields. Can't that satisfy you?"

"Morwen, sweet, I am trying to be patient with you," he said, kneeling down in front of her. For once the skin around his eyes looked taut, as though he really had lost his patience. "But you don't seem to understand your place as tenant. I will be kind and not lord it over you," he continued, closing the space between them. He squeezed her shoulders. "But very soon I will be giving the orders here and you will be my guest."

His hands slid down around her arms. They held her loosely by the wrists, but that only seemed to drive home that he was holding her this way by choice. There was a promise of what he could do, what he could become if she pushed him. The cold, sick feeling of fear turned her stomach.

"When that day comes," he said, "do you want to be in my favor or out of it?"


	18. Beldir Offers Advice

"Then he asked if I wanted to be in his favor when he decides to take full possession of Bar-en-Ferin."

Beldir fairly quivered with anger after Morwen related back her conversation with Halmir. He boiled over where he stood, insensible of the string of onions hanging from a rafter knocking him on the head. She had to take the shaking mugs of an herbal brew he liked out of his hands before he spilled their contents all over the table. She set his beside a tin dinner plate that still held a burnt rind of toast, which had been the overseer's dinner.

"Sit down, please," she urged. "I can't talk to you when you're looming."

Beldir folded into the only other seat in the cramped kitchen. Morwen leaned forward over Beldir's rough table top, resting her elbows on the edge. She didn't often visit the shed where he lived on the edge of the property. Here, where the valley walls began to slope in earnest, they were free from Halmir, his brother, his gang, and all of her own household who were constantly demanding her attention.

"How did he get his hands on that money?"

Morwen shook her head. "I don't know how he convinced his friends to lend it, but they have."

Through their generosity she felt thoroughly cornered. The situation had grown from preposterous to delicate. Now she had the duty of talking Halmir down from his scheme and convincing him to face his friends in defeat. For a fleeting instant, Morwen wished she could trade places with Ioneth who had nothing more to worry about than weeding the kitchen garden and flirting with the woodcutters.

"Perhaps after he sleeps on what I've said he will think better of keeping the money," she said without any real hope. "I'll think of something."

Beldir harrumphed. "You cannot ward off Halmir alone, Morwen. You're outnumbered."

"Then what should I do? We cannot go through with his scheme. I told you what he meant to do with the fruit trees."

Beldir looked contemptuously in the direction of the house through the open shutters while he thought. She watched him gulp down the hot drink and then attended to her own. It tasted dull in her mouth, oversteeped the way Beldir liked it.

"Many of those apples are the original trees to the orchard," he said. "My grandfather tended them. I don't know what I'd do with myself if they were chopped up to make room for a building."

Beldir fell back into thought, leaving Morwen to her own. Silence felt comfortable between them and Morwen had taken Beldir's presence for granted, she realized. He was as much a fixture in the valley as the trees themselves. Long before her birth, he served her parents as overseer of Bar-en-Ferin. Unlike either of her own parents, Beldir was born and raised in Imloth Melui. They shared that in common. Morwen didn't know any other home and neither did he.

They worked well together. What she lacked in knowledge, she made up for in willingness, which he respected. And so the transition of master from father to daughter upon Randir's death had been a smooth one up until this point, mainly because of Beldir's support. The families in the neighborhood perhaps didn't like him, least of all the children whom he had no scruples against cuffing when they were careless or lazy in the orchard. But he treated everyone fairly and so he had their respect, and in turn, respected their young mistress. The sentiment hadn't reached Arnach, she thought bitterly.

"You need to get your cousin involved," Beldir said finally. "Go to Prince Adrahil and see what he will do."

Morwen stared at Beldir. "Go to Minas Tirith? I can't," she said. "I could write…"

"A letter won't flap Halmir. Think, Morwen. If Prince Adrahil were to come and assert his influence, Halmir might decide to forget the whole thing."

"But Aranel is ill," Morwen reminded him gloomily. "Adrahil won't leave her to sort things out in Lossarnach."

"Still. Go to Minas Tirith."

Morwen grimaced.

"What choice do you have?" Beldir asked. "He can help you find out what your rights might be or, at the very least, he may put enough pressure on Halmir to leave by some other means. He might help you speak to the Steward. Don't forget your connection to the Princes of Dol Amroth."

"I haven't forgotten," Morwen sighed, rubbing her temples. "The thought crossed my mind more than once since the feast."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"I had guests to wait on."

"Prince Thengel left over a week ago," Beldir pointed out with ill humor.

The blood stirred in Morwen and she felt the heat of it in her face. "I know."

"Then what?"

Beldir waited while Morwen tried to put in to words exactly where her reluctance stemmed.

"Well." Morwen ran her thumb over the lip of the table to keep from looking up.

"Yes?"

"I had hoped to reason with Halmir myself without leaning on my other cousins," she admitted, "it makes me look weak."

"Weakness has nothing to do with it," Beldir said impatiently. "You can't reason with a fool."

"So I am learning."

Beldir leaned back in his chair, regarding her. "There's no shame in asking for help. It seems to me you can either keep your pride intact or the plantation, not both. "

Morwen glowered at her hands. "I shouldn't have to," she grumbled. "He should respect me enough to listen to my views without another man forcing him. Am I supposed to run to Adrahil every time something goes wrong here?"

"This is a peculiar situation where Lord Halmir feels he has some rights as well," Beldir observed, surprising Morwen and irritating her.

"Rights!"

"And there's his wanting to marry you, which makes some men pretty determined and not a little unreasonable."

Morwen struggled to swallow down several choice words for her overseer. She felt betrayed. How could Beldir try to see things from Halmir's point of view when her cousin had stepped so far beyond the edge of reason?

"That's no excuse for bad behavior," she huffed.

"I'm not excusing his behavior, my lady," Beldir replied. "Halmir doesn't see himself as a villain, is all, and that's the obstacle."

"And I am not accustomed to my wishes being ignored, which will be his obstacle. At least, it would be if the world worked the way it should."

Beldir laughed and Morwen found herself blushing again, as much in indignation as in embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, Morwen." He shrugged. "You had the unusual fortune as a child to have indulgent parents and nobody in the neighborhood to gainsay you. If the world worked the way it's supposed to, well, I can't imagine such a place."

"I'm not spoiled," she insisted.

Beldir grinned into his mug. "Nobody said that you were."

"Right."

Morwen rose to refill her cup from the kettle. With her back to Beldir, she felt she could think over what he had said. She watched the dregs swirl before disappearing into the black bottom of the brew. Through the one window beside the stove she could see the clouds were still spitting rain over the valley, staining the beeches gray in the dying light. Down the slope from the cottage, between the interlacing branches and new leaves she could distinguish snatches of the mossy roof of her home and a light or two twinkling in the windows.

It struck her with some force that she dreaded leaving this cramped, dusty little cottage for her own hall. When had she ever felt that way before now? With each of her parents' deaths the place had diminished somewhat in homeliness, but she never felt like it wasn't still her home. Now she felt that familiarity and sureness slipping through her fingers. Something would have to be done. Beldir spoke truly when he said she could keep her pride intact or keep Bar-en-Ferin. Not both.

He must have read the decision from the way she held her head up, as he asked, "When do we leave?"

She turned around. "We?"

"You're not going alone. I'm coming with you."

Morwen put her cup down and folded her arms. "Someone has to keep one eye on the orchard and another on Halmir." She shook her head, imagining her cousin left to his own devices. "Who will do that? Gundor?"

"Listen, the journey can be done in two days. Take another one or two for consulting with Prince Adrahil. What could Halmir do in that time?"

"I don't know, but that's what I'm worried about."

Beldir rose to his feet. "Morwen, if he is determined, there's precious little even I can do to stop him with all his thugs around. So I ask again, when do we leave?"

…

Morwen left Beldir's cottage feeling both relieved and unsettled. They had a plan. She would go to Adrahil and his support would set things to rights. So why did she still feel so uneasy?

On the one hand, Adrahil might only confirm that she had no foothold to rely on. She had hope of some recourse until that time. And yet, until she stood on her cousin's doorstep her nerves would buzz with the dread that something might happen to keep them from ever reaching Minas Tirith. The dread accompanied her on the walk through the beech grove and through the scattered tents where men grumbled and snored together, until she reached the small halo of yard they left to the household's use.

She found Ioneth in the kitchen garden, furiously pulling weeds and hissing under her breath at the drizzle. As far as Morwen could tell, the girl didn't succeed well with the mud.

Ioneth jumped nervously when she heard Morwen's footsteps crunching over the gravel.

"Oh, it's only you, Lady Morwen," the girl sighed. "I thought you might be one of those soldiers."

"I'm glad you aren't letting the men get the better of you, but perhaps you should save gardening for dryer weather?"

Ioneth wiped her nose on the back of her muddy hand. "Well, I won't go in the kitchen for any money while he's in there. Hareth's making a fool of herself, I say."

"He?"

Ioneth gave Morwen a look of long suffering. "The foreign one, of course."

"Guthere?"

"She only likes him because he's not one of the rangers from Ithilien, like the others."

It took Morwen a moment to recall Hareth's reaction to Adan the week before and the irrational blame the cook placed on them for removing her family from the danger of the orcs overrunning the forest. The truth was, Adan and Guthere were equally lacking in guilt.

"Why don't you go home, Ioneth? Gundor has nearly finished looking after the animals. He'll walk you home."

"You don't have to ask me twice," Ioneth muttered. She wiped her hands on her dress and left her pile of weeds lying where they fell. "Goodnight, my lady."

"Goodnight, Ioneth."

When the girl disappeared into the barn undisturbed, Morwen decided to come in through the kitchen rather than the hall, even if Hareth didn't like it. She could hear sounds of conversation muffled by the door. It abruptly ceased when the door's hinges creaked, betraying her entrance. She stood on the threshold, bathing in the light and warmth of the kitchen.

Both Hareth and Guthere were apple-cheeked and glistening in the humidity from the pots and pans simmering on the stove and the hearth. The bench had been pushed all the way under the broad table and a large gray pat of what might have been bread dough or gravel sat passively in a field of flour.

Flour covered them too, their sleeves rolled up revealing dusty arms. From the looks of it, Guthere might have been showing Hareth how to knead the doubtful looking lump of dough.

"Oh, Lady Morwen," Hareth clucked. She fiddled with her apron. "I thought you were Ioneth for a moment."

"Wet night, Lady Morwen," said Guthere. "Come in out of the drizzle."

Morwen did so, closing the door behind her. Now the savory aroma of vegetables and herbs enveloped her and hunger surpassed dread for her stomach's attention. She smiled softly at the pair before her.

"It's good to see you up and about more, Guthere."

Guthere blushed. "Thank you. I try to keep out from under foot, but…"

"He says conversation keeps his mind off the pain in his head," Hareth added.

"And the flour?" Morwen asked.

"I can't abide idle people in my kitchen," Hareth said, flushing nearly purple. "I put him to work."

"Midhel would approve, I'm sure."

Hareth turned to stir one of the pots, hiding her embarrassment behind a broad back. "He's teaching me recipes from, eh…"

"The Riddermark," Guthere supplied.

"Yes, the Riddermark." She gave the stew a vicious stir. "That's how it's properly called, you know."

"So I've heard."

"There'll be stew tonight for supper and once he shows me how to work the dough…" Hareth banged the spoon against the pot, knocking off vegetables and broth, and laid it to rest on the table. "Well, it's just that he understands food."

"It's a gift," Guthere chuckled.

Hareth and Guthere stared at one another in silence. Morwen inched toward the interior door that led to the hall. "I've sent Ioneth home early, so I'll just go find Gildis to tell her."

Morwen left them, feeling thoughtful. Gildis was just outside the door in the hall. A fire burned in the grate, hissing with the occasional raindrop. The table had been laid. Gildis busied herself at the linen chest, which stood open while she folded the tablecloths. The older woman looked up, having heard the door. She gave Morwen an amused smile.

"So you've noticed our little romance?"

Morwen drew near to Gildis and murmured, "When did it happen?"

"Oh, who really knows?" Gildis shook her head, and said with gravity, "these things creep up on one so."

"I've never seen Hareth like this."

Gildis rolled her eyes. "No one has, I'm sure."

"She's letting him cook. You don't think there's any harm in it, do you?

"Oh, it's harmless enough," she said as Morwen helped her with the long cloth," but perhaps your guest should leave sooner rather than later before things grow too serious. His pain seems to have magically subsided."

"Too serious?" Morwen glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen. "You mean they might want to marry?"

"How can they? He will have to return to serving Prince Thengel and that means he will go back to Rohan."

"Poor Hareth," Morwen sighed.

"Nonsense. Hareth can take care of herself."

Gildis took the folded cloth from Morwen and laid it in the chest. "Thank you. Ioneth should have put the cloths away, but she's making herself scarce these days."

"I sent Ioneth home."

"Just as well. She's been impossible since the feast," Gildis sniffed. "And where have you been?"

"Talking to Beldir about Halmir."

Gildis studied Morwen's face. "And?"

"I'm going to Minas Tirith. Beldir and I will go. Adrahil may have some advice for us."

"I take it Beldir suggested the journey?" When Morwen nodded, Gildis asked, "When will you leave?"

"The day after tomorrow. Beldir wants to finish the last row of trees, leave the workers with instructions for their care, and then we will go."

Gildis nodded. "A sensible plan."

"Do you really think it's a good idea, Gildis? It'll leave you and Hareth alone."

"What did Beldir say?"

"He doesn't think Halmir will have time to do much damage in only a few days. But if you feel you need us here, then we'll stay."

Gildis's eyes sparked. "Lady Morwen, are you suggesting I can't manage the household without you?"

Morwen bit her lip, suddenly feeling five years old again.

"This house has been in my care since before your mother became a bride and you were nothing but an inkling. Have I ever been unreliable in all that time?"

"No."

"Have you ever known me to be cowed by anyone?"

Morwen shook her head.

"Do you think I would let them raze the house, orchard, and all?"

"No, Gildis."

"Good. Now, when will you tell Lord Halmir that you're going?"

"Not until we leave."

"That is probably for the best," Gildis said dryly. "Do you think Prince Adrahil would come to Bar-en-Ferin?"

"Honestly, no."

"I wish he would. Lord Halmir could use some bullying for all that he's given you."

Before Gildis finished her sentence, Hundor materialized from the shadows of the corridor. Morwen stepped away from Gildis as if they were guilty conspirators and both of the women watched him with their breaths held. He stretched his arms behind his back as if he had just woken from a nap.

"Is supper up yet?"

"It will be soon, my lord," Gildis told him.

He picked a thread off his tunic and yawned. "Guess I'll go for a walk then."

They watched him until he disappeared through the hall doors.

"I keep forgetting he's here," Morwen muttered. "His brother's such a distraction.

Gildis nodded.

"Do you think he heard us?"

Gildis pursed her lips, and then said, "Let us hope he didn't. He's rotten with mischief, that one."

Morwen agreed. Dread quickly replaced hunger. Until she left the woods of Imloth Melui behind her, she wouldn't be free of it.

…

When the morning of their journey arrived, even the weather seemed relieved. The clouds dispersed and the young, spring sun generously spilled its beams over the valley wall. Leaves that were bent under the weight of raindrops seemed to curl upward to sip the light.

Morwen woke early to meet Beldir in the stables, but he had not materialized. Knowing him as she did, she imagined he had taken one last round of the orchard and had found something to distract him. So she busied herself saddling the horses.

Strawberry huffed in Morwen's ear, tickling the side of her face and leaving her a mess. She gently pushed his muzzle away and wiped the snot from her ear with her sleeve. For a handsome chestnut, he lacked manners, she thought. Across the aisle, old Briar, a small draft horse from the north with a dun coat, watched the proceedings with sleepy interest. The other horses belonging Guthere and Halmir had been let out into the paddock.

She had never thought of either Strawberry or Briar as short or overly plump. They were exercised regularly and muscular enough to pull the wagon of goods to Arnach and Minas Tirith. But compared to Guthere's horse, where she thought of them as deep chested, she saw stockiness.

Strawberry stamped a foot and whickered. He regarded her thoughtfully and his expression seemed to say that she wasn't the usual one bothering him into a saddle and could she quit daydreaming?

"Peace," she murmured. "I'm almost finished."

Morwen secured the throatlatch and stepped away. The tack looked right, but she felt a second opinion might not hurt. In fact, Beldir usually saddled the horses but he still hadn't arrived. She left the stall to go in search of him when her skirt snagged on a nail that had worked its way out of the post.

As she bent to unhitch her hem she heard a boot scuffing the floor. Looking up, she had time to see Hundor try to duck behind the stable door. It was too late and he knew he had been seen. He leaned back into the doorway and gave her a crooked grin that she did not like. As she rose, he stepped fully into the aisle.

"You're still an insufferable lurker, aren't you?" she said.

Hundor shrugged. "And you're a sneak. Where are you off to?"

"I didn't sneak," Morwen said. "Everyone has full knowledge of my journey."

"Not Halmir."

Morwen looked down her nose at him. "I don't owe Halmir an explanation of my actions. Besides, I have an inkling you already told him."

Hundor laughed. "It wasn't hard to find out. I just wanted to know if you'd admit it."

"Don't you have someone else to spy on?" she groused.

"Alas, no." He leaned against an empty stall and stirred the dirt floor with his boot. "It won't be much fun without you and Halmir butting heads. Why are you going to Minas Tirith at all?"

"I'm visiting Adrahil," she said.

Hundor's lip curled into a sneer. "The noble Adrahil. Prince of stuffed shirts."

"Don't be disrespectful. It smacks of jealousy."

Hundor shrugged. "I'm not the only one who says things like that. Everyone knows that their house lords it over everyone else, even the Steward's cowed by them. Hardang used to said so."

"Hardang would never speak of the princes of Dol Amroth like that."

"Not in so many words."

Morwen knew he enjoyed irritate her and that she made herself an easy target. He had the talent for it. She took several deep breaths to calm herself, a mistake in the dry, dirty barn. The dust tickled her throat and she coughed violently into her sleeve.

"It sounds to me," she said when the coughing fit ceased, "that Hardang's description fits Halmir better. Has he shared his plans with you?"

"Most of them."

"Then you know what danger he's in. Can't you try to talk him out of it?"

Hundor laughed bitterly. "Halmir does whatever he wants. You and I know he won't retrench. He's sink all his money rather than admit defeat."

"Then what about you?"

"What about me?" he asked with a jaundiced expression.

"Surely you must be eager to return home to your friends and…whatever it is you do in Arnach. Do you want to be mixed up in this too?"

"Arnach's dull." He grinned. "All the interesting things are happening here."

Not for much longer, Morwen hoped. But where was Beldir? She excused herself and left Hundor alone in the stable. The Arnach men loitering in the yard made room for her to cross to the house, which always made her feel strange. Not that she wanted to elbow her way through them, but the way they treated her with such otherness unnerved her.

Morwen stopped when the sound of a disturbance reached her ears. A figure pushed his way to the front where Morwen stood and finally the others gave way for him.

"Gundor?"

"Sorry, Lady Morwen," he panted, breathless. "Beldir's hurt."

Morwen blinked stupidly while the meaning of Gundor's message made its sleepy way to her brain.

"Hurt? How?"

Gundor screwed up his face in a look of disgust. "He fell off his roof."

Again, the meaning did not immediately register in Morwen's mind.

"His roof? What was he doing up there?"

The men nearest them leaned toward them in interest, distracting Gundor who watched them press in. Morwen gripped his arm.

"Tell me."

"He said he heard some creature burrowing in the thatch during the night and he wanted to have a look." Gundor shuddered. "I heard him hollering on my way to the orchard and I hadn't even done anything yet! So I followed his voice to the cottage and there he was in a heap under some thatch and his ladder."

"Where is he now?"

"On the ground."

"Still?"

"It's his leg, he said. Beldir can't walk at all. He said not to move him in case I break his neck or worse."

What could be worse? she wondered. "Take me to him."

…

Morwen's heart sank as soon as she saw Beldir. His limbs splayed out on the ground and his face had turned a gray-green color that did not bode well. She could see he was sweating and making an effort to hide the pain. Morwen knelt beside him. Gundor at least had the forethought to clear away the ladder and the thatch.

"Morwen."

"What's the damage?" she asked gently.

"There's a hole all right."

"In your leg?" she gasped.

He looked at her like she was daft. "No, in the roof."

Morwen bit the inside of her cheek as irritation and relief vied for dominance. The farm could do without seeing more holes in bodies. Holes in roofs were the least of her worries. She became aware of more people gathering about the shed. Adan and the limping Beleg, Thengel's friend, were among them.

"Beldir," she said carefully, "I'm asking about you, not the roof."

Beldir grimaced. "Oh."

"Do you think it's broken?"

"Don't know," he said through gritted teeth. "Call me a coward, but I can't bring myself to look."

"Let me see." No obvious signs of breakage appeared while his leg was covered, no exposed bone. Yet, Morwen's stomach curdled in anticipation as she rolled up Beldir's pants leg. Sure enough, a red lump formed under the skin on his calf where free bone was pressing upward. Morwen gagged, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Broken?"

Morwen nodded, unwilling to open her mouth in case she was sick.

"It'll need setting." Adan had materialized at Morwen's side, surveying Beldir's leg.

"Do you know how?" she asked. "We could get Midhel, but that will take time."

"It's common knowledge in our line of work," he said. "Happens all the time."

"That one's not to help." Beldir pointed to Gundor.

"No fear!" Gundor grunted. He looked as green as Morwen.

"We'll shift him, my lady. Beleg and I can do it. Then we'll move him inside."

"Thank you. Gundor, get Midhel. She'll have something for the pain."

Gundor obeyed, taking off at a run that would wind him before he left the bounds of the property. He never did learn how to pace himself and she understood Beldir's frustration with the boy.

Morwen realized that Adan had been talking to her and that her mind had wandered. She had to ask him to repeat himself.

"We need a splint," he said. "One of the lads could fetch something from camp, but…." Adan's expression seemed to suggest he thought she might like an excuse to be elsewhere when they set the bone.

Morwen felt all too aware of her own weak stomach to be offended. She admired Midhel's iron will in the face of bodily disruption, but that gift hadn't bestowed itself on Morwen.

"Tell me what you need. I'll see what can be found in Beldir's cottage."

Beleg described the materials they would need to set the bone and wrap it. Morwen entered the cottage, propping the door open behind her for when they would carry Beldir inside. She looked for splint material and any old cloth that could be wound around his leg. The man lived sparsely but she did find an old sheet stored in a crate up in the rafters that would work. It sent up a cloud of dust when she shook it open that made her cough and sneeze. Tearing it into strips proved harder as all Beldir's knives were dull and in places the old fabric simply crumbled. She handed the usable strips to Beleg out the window.

"We're going to set it now, my lady," he warned.

Morwen busied herself inside, turning down the blanket on Beldir's small cot, plumping the pillow, and moving his chair, a pair of old boots, and a crate of firewood that might be in the men's way.

She heard the men talking to one another and kept an eye on the window. Adan and Beleg were visible when standing, but she couldn't see Beldir. When Adan and Beleg both stooped, she turned away from the window, though her imagination made up for what she couldn't see. She heard a gurgled cry and a muffled swear.

Morwen dropped into a chair and tried to quell her imagination, which only made things worse.

Adan appeared in the doorway after a little while. "All done and wrapped," he told her. "He passed out and we'd like to move him before he wakes."

Morwen nodded and made room for them to carry Beldir to the cot. When they finished laying him out, she studied Beldir's open jaw and the slack, sweaty face.

"Thank you, Adan. Beleg," she said. "You've both been a great help to me. I hope this won't make you unpopular with Lord Halmir."

Beleg snorted his opinion of Lord Halmir.

"You're Prince Thengel's friend," said Adan. "That counts for a lot more than whatever Lord Halmir might dish out for a good deed."

Morwen felt herself grow warm at the way Adan included her in band of friendship. "Thank you. Prince Thengel is lucky in his friends."

When they were gone, she brought a cup of water and a rag to clean up Beldir. Thatch and dirt stuck to his hair, making him look like even more like a scarecrow than his gaunt features normally did. She picked out the pieces and then washed the sweat and dirt from his face, something he would not allow her to do if he were awake. Morwen hoped he would stay asleep until Midhel came with some potion for the pain.

Her work done, Morwen sat beside the bed with nothing to do but wait for the healing and think over what Beldir's fall meant for her situation. Strawberry would need to be unsaddled and her bags brought back into the house.

Morwen balled her hands into fists and buried them in her lap. If Prince Thengel had luck, Morwen seemed to have none. Beldir wouldn't be riding any horse today and neither would she. Minas Tirith felt impossibly far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate it!
> 
> Character list:
> 
> Adan: ranger, friend of Thengel's
> 
> Adrahil: Prince of Dol Amroth, Morwen's cousin
> 
> Aranel: Adrahil's wife, princess of Dol Amroth
> 
> Beldir: Overseer at Bar-en-Ferin
> 
> Beleg: ranger, friend of Thengel's
> 
> Cenhelm: Captain of Thengel's honor guard
> 
> Ecthelion: Captain of Gondor's armies, son of Turgon
> 
> Fengel: King of Rohan, Thengel's estranged father
> 
> Ferneth: Hardang's wife, Lady of Lossarnach
> 
> Forlong: Ferneth's infant son
> 
> Gildis: Morwen's servant
> 
> Gladhon: One of Thengel's Gondorian honor guard, a native of Lossarnach 
> 
> Gundor: Morwen's servant, apprentice to Beldir
> 
> Guthere: One of Thengel's honor guard, injured in Lossarnach
> 
> Hardang: Lord of Lossarnach, deceased, Morwen's cousin
> 
> Halmir: Hardang's useless brother, Morwen's cousin
> 
> Hareth: Morwen's cook
> 
> Hundor: Hardang's youngest useless brother, Morwen's cousin
> 
> Idhren: Ecthelion's wife
> 
> Ioneth: Morwen's young servant
> 
> Midhel: Healer in Imloth Melui
> 
> Morwen: the mistress of Bar-en-Ferin
> 
> Oswin: Marshal of Riddermark, Thengel's uncle
> 
> Thengel: exiled prince of Rohan
> 
> Thurstan: One of Thengel's honor guard
> 
> Turgon: Steward of Gondor, father of Ecthelion
> 
> Wynflaed: Thengel's sister, princess & shieldmaiden
> 
> Wynlaf: Queen of Rohan
> 
> Various soldiers from Arnach
> 
> Places:
> 
> Lossarnach: A southern fief of Gondor
> 
> Imloth Melui: a valley in Lossarnach along the river Erui
> 
> Bar-en-Ferin: "House of Beeches," Morwen's estate in Imloth Melui
> 
> Minas Tirith: the capitol of the country of Gondor, seat of the kings and stewards
> 
> Rohan: Referred to as the Riddermark, the country north of Gondor
> 
> Edoras: the capitol city of Rohan
> 
> Aldburg: the founding settlement of the Eorlingas in Rohan


	19. Wars and Rumors of Wars

Minas Tirith

The mountain ranges of Middle-earth looked like a great, two-legged worm. To the north of the map, which lay on Thengel's table, the Grey Mountains formed a forked tail and hind leg, while the Misty Mountains jutted southward into a spine, splitting at the shoulders to become the Ered Nimrais. The hair on the back of Thengel's arm rose as his fingers traced the snarling jaws of the Ered Lithui and Ephel Dúath. They locked around the Black Lands with three hooked teeth and a malicious, snarled lip. In the midst of those great jaws fire swelled into rivers, or had done once. A frightening, fire-breathing head. And now, they knew, it harbored a growing nest for goblin filth.

Within the first week of Thengel's arrival from Lossarnach, Men and Dwarves from Rhovanion had arrived to represent their new kings to Steward Turgon. They carried with them the tidings of the battle of five armies. The event had been concealed from Gondor, though not the aftermath. The unforgiving winter, which arrived early and tarried long in those regions, delayed the messengers, but had not delayed the goblins who had fled in all directions after the rout.

Never in his own lifetime, or his father's lifetime, had the goblins massed so great an army or traveled so far from the protective eaves of their mountains. It reminded Thengel of the tales from the Elder days, which he sometimes read about from books in Turgon's private library.

Thengel would have liked to have seen the Beornings - and the eagles! Elves and Dwarves interested him little. Their careless greed had created ripples that extended out into Ithilien. His finger dipped into the map's pleasant, cool green swirls forming the imaginary dragon's crest. Northern Ithilien. Emyn Arnen. Southern Ithilien. He traced the road down to Lossarnach. In minute script the mapmaker had inked Imloth Melui.

He felt an angry pang on Lady Morwen's behalf. If they had known the upset those Dwarves would cause, Ecthelion could have reinforced the guard in Ithilien, Thengel thought bitterly. They would not have been taken by surprise by the sheer numbers of orcs making for Mordor and all empty lands. Hardang might still be alive to protect his young cousin from his brothers. Instead, the battle had scattered the vermin in all directions like spilled rice.

His thoughts scattered when he heard footsteps outside the sitting room door. He rolled up the map, feeling his shoulders rising stiffly up to his ears. Since he had arrived home, this had become an automatic response to his relations. The steps stopped outside the sitting room and a soft tap of knuckles against wood caused him to relax. Eriston, most likely. Members of his family used their fists.

"Come in."

Eriston entered quietly with a mechanical quality to his long, thin limbs that always reminded Thengel of a stick bug. He had several tunics folded over his arm and a piece of paper in his other hand.

"What would you like me to do with this, my lord? It was hiding at the bottom of your travel bag."

The travel bag had disappeared somewhere in the depths of that wardrobe several weeks ago, Thengel mused. The servant held out a crushed piece of pulpy, handmade paper. Thengel took it and read the name painted across it, remembering Teitherion's instruction to seek out the painting in the Archives. He had resolved to do it, but Oswin (with the help of Wynflaed) kept him on a short leash.

"Thank you, Eriston. I'll keep it." Thengel tucked the card into one of the back signatures of a book lying next to the map. Then he said, "I thought those tunics were clean."

"They are, my lord."

"What are you doing with them?"

"Lady Wynflaed asked to inspect them."

Thengel winced. "What for?"

A muscle jumped in Eriston's cheek. "Lady Wynflaed said, to wit, that she wished to make sure they passed muster, though I assured her I always paid the utmost attention to the care of the garments."

Poor Eriston. Wynflaed's carelessness had bruised his servant's pride more than once since her stay began, leaving Thengel to smooth things over.

"She isn't as familiar with your excellent standards as I am, Eriston. Things are different in Rohan, you see." That seemed to mollify the man a little. At least the tick in his cheek dissolved. "Incidentally, muster for what?"

"The answer is beyond even my imagination, my lord." Eriston shifted, looking uncomfortable, as if admitting a fault. "I have only ever served bachelors."

Thengel cringed, taking the hint. Yes, his sister did have plans for him. He'd never felt this uncomfortable under his own roof before. And now between his uncle and his sister, they were planning to expose him to all manner of mortifications just to make sure the line didn't end in a field or a ditch of Gondor.

Reminded of this, Thengel began to feel that the house felt too warm and too close. He slipped the card from the book, which he set back down in a pile of other volumes he'd rescued from the library.

"Eriston, if anyone's looking for me, I'm headed to the Archives."

"Yes, my lord. And where shall I tell them to find you?"

Thengel grinned. "The old guesthouse?"

Eriston looked gravely at him. "We've used that one before, my lord. It did divert Lady Wynflaed, but the amusement escaped the Marshal."

"It did, didn't it? Training grounds, then." Thengel shrugged. "The sight of a few swords should keep Wynflaed distracted if she comes looking for me. And if my uncle should find himself there, he can comfort himself by complaining about me to Cenhelm."

Eriston blinked. "My lord."

"It's true. They like commiserating together. I can't for the life of me think why," he muttered dryly.

He got up and plucked one of the fresh tunics from Eriston's arms. "Anyway, I'd like to get away without any bother. Distract Wynflaed for me while I change."

Eriston bowed, a little crestfallen, before delivering himself over to his master's frightening sister.

…

Thengel enjoyed two quiet steps toward the door when Wynflaed popped her head out of the study. She stepped fully out when she saw him on the landing. "Uncle wants you before you leave for the Archives."

Eriston! Thengel gritted his teeth. "Traitor."

Wynflaed gave him a dry look. "I almost pity him. If you were more cooperative he wouldn't find himself in such a hard place."

"He works for me, you know," he said, looking at her sideways.

Wynflaed snorted and started fanning herself with a half-crumpled pamphlet she'd taken from his library. She wore a wool dress which, though suitable for a chilly April in Edoras, proved uncomfortably warm for Minas Tirith.

"You should stop worrying about my clothes and have something made for you," he pointed out, noticing the sweat on her upper lip.

"I will," she replied as they entered the library together," Once you're in order. Lady Idhren provided me with the name of a dressmaker."

"Hurrah," he said under his breath. The relationship between his sister and his friend's wife made him feel vaguely concerned for Idhren's sake – and his own. They could get any amount of information about him her with only a little flattery and attention.

And if they abused Ecthelion's household the way they abused his, then he would have to make amends. The library bore little resemblance to the quiet, Gondorian reading room it once had been. For one thing, it smelled like an old horse blanket and someone had propped a freshly oiled spear against the wall. Uncle Oswin sat ensconced in Thengel's favorite armchair. He had one of Thengel's books on his lap, paper draped over it while he wrote a letter. Thengel clenched his fingers into fists, imagining the scrawl permanently indenting the leather binding.

"I've offered you the use of my writing desk before, Uncle."

Oswin looked up. "Oh, good morning."

"Wynflaed says you wanted me?"

She chose to lean against the wall, still fanning herself, so Thengel seated himself on the empty couch across from his uncle. Oswin looked down at the papers in his lap, shuffling through them. "We need your opinion on the guest list for the feast Turgon is preparing. Wynflaed's sources have been most helpful in supplying it for us, but I thought you might want to check it over."

"Guest list for what?"

"The Steward's feast for the kings' envoy from Esgaroth," Wynflaed said dispassionately. "Don't tell me you've forgotten."

"Oh. Yes."

They watched him read the names so he kept his expressions neutral. He tossed the page onto the low table between the sofa and his uncle's chair.

"The usual crowd. What of it?"

"Don't you see the opportunity to find a wife? Very convenient, these Lakemen coming here just at this time."

"It won't help your efforts at all. There aren't any Rohirric families on this list."

Oswin and Wynflaed exchanged a look. She shrugged.

"It wouldn't help you if there were," she drawled. "No woman of Riddermark in her right mind will have you."

"Wynflaed, mind your tongue." Oswin stood between the pair. "I didn't bring you to trade insults."

Wynflaed shrugged. "Another time, then."

Oswin ignored her. "Thengel, I hope you won't make this little gesture of ours difficult. We are doing it for you, after all."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to be left alone."

Oswin gave him a sharp look. "Thengel, I warned you that I wanted news of a wedding before the next year ends or steps would be taken. I've kept my boot planted firmly on your father's robes all this time to give you a modicum of peace. Don't fool yourself into thinking that he isn't interested in what you get up to here. Don't make me regret the intervention."

"First, it will take more than a feast for me to find a wife. Second, you can tell Fengel King that he will have to wait until I return to the Mark. I won't choose a wife before then."

"Oh, and why not?" Wynflaed asked.

Thengel rose and walked away from the cluster of chairs and the couch where his family sat. Bema, he hated discussing this subject with his uncle, let alone his older sister whom he hadn't seen in twenty years. Marriage, more than any other aspect of his life, reminded him that his public and private affairs were grafted together. That didn't mean he liked the scrutiny.

"Listen. Whatever you two have planned," he said with forced patience, "I need to see a woman in her own home, at ease among her own people, before I can judge if she has fit character to become queen of the Mark. One evening dancing in Mundburg among her competitors won't cut it."

Oswin rubbed his forehead as his nephew drained his patience. "Thengel, your father is hale as a wild boar. Twenty years may pass ere he does. Do you think any woman of childbearing years would have you by then?"

"Do you think any of them will have him now?"

"Wynflaed," they both shouted. She stuck out her chin in defiance.

"Well then, let's hope fate intervenes," Thengel continued. "One day Fengel King might choke on a bone and speed his end."

Wynflaed snorted. "Twenty years you've been away and you still haven't learned any respect."

"Fengel King inherited a throne," Thengel muttered, "respect is earned."

"He is your father," said Oswin, voice thickly accented with disappointment.

Thengel folded his arms. "You and Turgon were better fathers to me than Fengel ever was."

"Yes, and see how I am treated for my pains over my sister-son."

"I'm sorry," Thengel replied sullenly.

Oswin pointed a finger at him. "Prove it by doing as I ask. I'm not a young man, Thengel. My time here is limited, more limited even than Fengel's. I've done my best to support Wynlaf and her children, to make sure that the throne is protected in your absence. For the sake of the Riddermark and your mother, I'm begging you, Thengel, cooperate."

"What do you want me to do?" Thengel asked wearily, dropping back onto the couch. "He sent me here."

Oswin tapped himself on the chest. "I sent you. Your father had other plans and you know it. Put aside your past hurts and for once think about the good of your countrymen. Quit throwing yourself in front of every orc arrow in that benighted forest —" he held up his hand to silence Thengel's outburst. "Until you've provided an heir. You're a warrior; it's in your blood to fight. I know. You've proved your valor more than once under Lord Ecthelion, but every scratch on your person threatens to sink the Riddermark into chaos. Find a wife. Secure the line. Then throw yourself into whatever orc nest you desire."

Wynflaed, who seemed to have shrunk during Oswin's speech, suddenly perked up. "Like the one in Eriador? I wish you had sent me."

"Wynflaed, hush."

Thengel moved over so Wynflaed could sit next to him on the sofa. "This feast takes place before anyone from Rohan has time to arrive. I don't see how some feast in Minas Tirith is going to help you achieve your desired aim."

"Who said the bride had to be from the Mark?" Wynflaed interrupted. "Surely there are women at ease in their own homes even in this queer place," she said without masking a sneer.

A thread in Thengel's mind seemed to snap. He stared at Oswin stupidly. "Not from the Mark?"

Oswin bowed his head. "Not from the Mark. These Gondorian women are quite pretty and surely some of them might even be hearty enough."

Wynflaed looked somewhat doubtful, Thengel noted, but the need for compromise compelled them.

"Wait." Thengel held his hand up, dropped it, then held it up again. "You don't think marrying a Gondorian woman would divide the Mark?"

Oswin smiled grimly. "It would cause a stir. But if you were to die and your father's cousins fought for the throne, it would ruin us."

If his cousins wanted the throne so much, why not let them compete for it during Fengel's lifetime?

"The House of Eorl has other sons," he reflected, trying the idea out. He tried to imagine what it would feel like, life untethered to the throne. Poor Cenhelm. This conversation would kill him. "Let Fengel name a second if he wants."

"How will he choose among his sisters' sons?" Oswin asked. "Aethelstan is the firstborn of your father's eldest sister. He has several sons and grandsons to carry on the third line - the third line, Thengel. He owns a great herd of horses and knows the land well. But your cousin Freomund's father is the marshal of Westmark and has considerable clout among the warriors. It's warriors we need," Oswin finished solemnly. "More so after what we have learned of late."

"Fritha might have sons," Thengel pointed out. "She might remarry. Three years have passed since you wrote me of Sigbert's death in that clash with the Dunlendings at the fords."

"Thengel, Fritha is thirteen years older than you," Wynflaed groused. "Even if she were wed again, her years of childbearing all but spent."

"Well, what about you then?"

Lightning flashed in Wynflaed's eyes. "Little better!" she spat. "I am a shieldmaiden and have sworn never to marry."

"No one has ever required shieldmaidens to take that oath," Thengel pointed out, "you only did it to spite Father."

Wynflaed glared accusation at Oswin. "Is that what you think happened? And you put it in a letter to Thengel?"

Oswin shrugged. "It was a matter of state. You refused to marry that boy Aelfric and I was depending on it to smooth things over with his father and the king."

She rounded on Thengel. "How can you possibly ask me to break my vow to protect the Riddermark if you won't do your duty?"

"How can you force a wife on me if you wouldn't marry Aelfric?"

"That was different," she growled.

"Hush, Thengel. Wynflaed is right," said Oswin. "You have a duty to the Mark. I can work around Aelred and his sons."

"I'm aware of my duty," he replied sullenly. "I'm just not thrilled by your methods."

"Thengel, we have our reasons. This is the Third Age, after all. What we have learned of Esgaroth has shaken us all. And maybe King Bard and King Dain have been restored, but we cannot rely on them to shield us from our enemies. Rather, they have kicked the hornets' nest and we are feeling the sting in the south. Orcs aren't multiplying on Gondor's borders only, you know. There's the Dunlendings squeezing us from the west, too. Do not think I sent you to Gondor on a whim. I could have sent you north where you might have learned some humility as a lowly fisherman among the ruins of Long Lake." He laughed bitterly. "That would have been quite the lesson had you survived it."

"I wish you had sent me," Wynflaed muttered.

This was the first Thengel had heard of any other plan. He leaned forward. "Why to Gondor, then?"

"To learn. To strengthen the alliance between the Mark and Gondor."

Thengel leaned back, disappointed. "Eorl swore an oath which we have honored to this day. What more do you expect me to do?"

"What are oaths if they are not accompanied by action? It won't surprise you to hear that Fengel King would have undone all the work of his brothers Folcred and Fastred to secure that bond between our lands."

"Not in the least."

"But you have built it up. I know Lord Ecthelion and Steward Turgon value you. I hear they call you Thengel Thrice-Renowned," Oswin said with a rare thread of pride in his voice. "I'm not a seer, but I can read the signs of earth and air. There's darkness ahead for the Riddermark if we are not prepared. These men from Esgaroth only confirm it with their tales of the great goblin hordes leaving the mountains. When orcs forget to fear our spears, there's more at work in the world. We will need a strong alliance with Gondor in the long years ahead. And you know better than any that Gondor's strength isn't waxing. Who knows what may pass?"

"I have Ecthelion's friendship. What more does Rohan require?"

"You have Ecthelion's friendship now, but who will remember it when you are both gone? Marry. Bring a sliver of Gondor to the Mark. Choose a woman from a family of some importance who will remember her. Bring her language and customs to the Hall, bring your understanding of history and martial arts. Open the way for greater trade and trust."

Bring her language and customs? Now Thengel felt it was his turn for anger. What was Oswin playing at? "There would be a coup if I forced Westron or anything else Gondorian on the Mark."

"Oh, there will be grumbling." Oswin waved his hand as if to fan away the inconsequential puff of indignation that would arise. "We are a nation of grumblers and dark brows. But we need a common language, Thengel. We cannot afford to stand apart from the world."

Thengel's gaze passed suspiciously between the conspirators. He couldn't believe his sister wasn't objecting to Oswin's theories too. Then he realized that their uncle had had more time to wear down any resistance she might have felt while they were in Rohan.

"I don't suppose just any girl would do?"

Oswin stroked his beard. "Well, she would need to be connected…but not so well connected that they wouldn't want to lose her to what she must consider to be a more rustic society. As for who, you would have a better idea," Oswin said innocently. "Surely there are women whom you have known 'at ease in their own homes' as you put it."

"Who are willing to put up with you," Wynflaed added.

Thengel grinned, feeling like he'd finally gotten his legs under him. "Sure," he drawled, nearly happy. "They're all married now. You should've come ten years ago." He leaned back on the couch and laughed. For years he'd kept his distance from more than one beautiful woman because he knew there was no chance for them to marry.

He stopped laughing and rubbed his eyes. After the initial burst of mirth, he felt the fiery tongues of anger licking over him again. Bema, what an absurd mess.

Faintly, he heard the bells toll the hour. Thengel remembered the paper in his pocket. Already the morning had slipped away.

"Well, Uncle. Wynflaed. I've had my fill of this talk."

He rose and made his way to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To the Archives, as you well know," he called over his shoulder. "And I don't want to be bothered even if the Haradrim lay siege to the city."

"And what if we come across a suitable bride?" he heard Wynflaed say.

"Especially not for that!"

…

Thengel entered the Archives in a foul mood with the morning's new paradigm swirling around in his mind. He approached the long desk commanding the center of the anteroom at a clip, nearly knocking over a scholar crossing in the opposite direction. After a brief lecture by the scholar and an apology in his side, Thengel proceeded to the desk at a steadier pace, leaning against the wood in a way that felt casual.

He had a good view of the clerk's hasty job with a comb as the young man bent at a 90 degree angle over the wood, scratching away with his pen on stiff cards laying in a line before him. The hawk-nosed clerk jotted a final note onto his small card before tucking the lot into bundles near a pile of books. He glanced up with a start, noticing the prince leaning over him.

"How may I serve you, Prince Thengel?" the clerk said as he bowed deeply. He sounded like he suffered from a complaint in the nose. "What information do you seek today?"

"Not information, but a painting." Thengel took out the slip of paper that had been tucked into the cuff of his undershirt. "I believe the Archives house a special collection of works by an artist called Teitharion."

The clerk raised an eyebrow in thought. "Teitharion. Let me see." He turned his back on Thengel to consult a shelf of indexes behind the counter. He hummed to himself as he turned pages and scrolled his fingers down the minute print. "Ah, yes." He turned toward Thengel again. "It appears we do have a small collection by this fellow. I will refer you to Master Pengoloth, the art curator." He tapped briskly on the desk and a sleepy-eyed page boy materialized out of nowhere. "Lead Prince Thengel to Master Pengoloth's chamber - and no detours on the way back, my lad."

The boy squeaked a reply in an injured tone, then squirreled away through the doorway into the gut of the archives. Thengel had to jump to keep up with the boy. He followed the page through arched hallways with closed doors on either side. The corridor was dim as the light penetrating high windows did not reach the floor. Dust motes swirled overhead and Thengel found himself studying the pattern caused by the light and air and granules. The deeper they walked, he was starting to feel closed in. It reminded him of a trip he had taken with this uncle to Helm's Deep as a small boy. As any self-respecting lad would have done, he'd wandered off and gotten himself stuck in a dark corner. He'd never liked to be enclosed by stone without some view of the outer world.

In the middle of the long line of doors, the boy stopped and rapped smartly on the door to the right. Stepping back, the boy waited with a stony expression. He couldn't be more than ten years old, Thengel thought. It was probably a dreary job, scampering up and down a dim hallway delivering messages or bussing patrons back and forth to reading rooms. At his age, Thengel had learned to ride over the meadows surrounding Edoras, getting into scrapes, and wandering too far.

Thengel was about to ask the boy what he thought about his job when a voice on the other side of the door bid them to enter. The page opened the door for Thengel, then darted off back down the corridor.

Master Pengoloth stood at an impressive height behind a canvas-encumbered table. Mats were strewn over the surface along with pieces of frame. It looked more like a carpenter's bench, Thengel thought, than a scholar's studio. Short steel nails filled a jar on an adjoining counter. Pigments lined a narrow shelf above the counter, while brushes of every size soaked in mugs of water below. He saw a canister of turpentine with the lid slightly askew near an explosion of cotton wool.

The archivist's silver-black hair was bound in a plait that hung over his shoulder. Thengel noticed that the tip had come into contact with one of the jar of varnish littered around the table. It had left an inverted arc of gloss along the archivist's robes.

The place smelled of lemons, onions, old wood, and turpentine. It made Thengel's head feel giddy and he forgot to introduce himself. But, the advantage of being the only straw-headed resident in the city rendered that unnecessary. His looks announced him wherever he went.

"Prince Thengel, I believe," said Pengoloth with unconcealed surprise. He bowed quickly. "Come in, please."

"I'm interrupting your work, Master Pengoloth," Thengel observed.

"No, no. Only a bit of restoration. I've been breathing in too much turpentine, as it is. How may I serve you?"

The master came around the table to usher Thengel inside and close the door.

Thengel held out the card again. "I'm looking for a painting, one by a man called Teitherion. He told me that all his works were stored here."

Pengoloth winced, as if at some memory of the eccentric painter. "Yes, indeed. Teitherion. Well. Let me see." He opened an upright chest that contained unbound indexes separated by a matrix of wooden slats. He ran his finger over the tiny brass plates below each cube until he landed on the one he wanted. "Here it is. The inventory of items by the painter Teitherion, their names, dates, provenance, etc. And do you know which of these you wished to see?"

Thengel scanned the list that Master Pengoloth held. Most of the names were ambiguous. A farmhouse on the Pelennor. A ship on the Harlond. Soldiers drinking at the Old Inn. The usual thing. With so many words on the page, they all seemed to blend together. Thengel let his eyes relax. After a moment, a word floated to the surface. Exile.

"There it is." He pointed to a line two-thirds of the way down. "I wish to see that one."

Master Pengoloth cleared his throat. "Eh, The Wayward Son in Exile. Well. The obvious choice, haha. Er." He tried his hide his embarrassment by replacing it in its file.

"Now," said Pengoloth, reaching for a small, enclosed lamp hanging near the door, "If you'd just follow me. I'll take you to the collection."

He rolled back a tapestry hanging from the wall like a curtain, revealing an unlocked door. Thengel stared down the dim stairway for a moment, not liking to go where he couldn't see beyond a few feet. But then he followed behind the master into the catacombs below.

….

Thengel felt his nerves fraying as they progressed into the archives. It grew worse once they reached the end of the art repositories and discovered that locating the painting would prove more difficult than Master Pengoloth had supposed. Here, the lesser-known artists' offerings languished in the dark. Constant light was anathema in the archives as fire from the lamps threatened the safety of the collection. The master's own small lamp revealed little of the secrets around them.

They were in a large room laid out like a warehouse on the Halrond, Thengel thought, with rose of wooden racks stacked on top of one another. Many of the shelves within the chamber had begun to sag over the years. The brass plates nailed into the end caps, which stated the holdings for each unit, had begun to peel. Pengoloth clucked his tongue at the condition, but plainly the state reflected the people's feelings about these artists.

The painting had been wrapped in cloth and filed carefully lying down in the cool chambers. With some inspired guessing, Master Pengoloth managed to locate Teitherion's collection and unearth the painting in question. He gave Thengel the lamp to carry while he delivered the painting to an antechamber, which a curtain split from the storage area. The room contained brackets along the walls for torches, a table and a bench. Thengel lit a few torches using the lamp and one of the tapers he found in a basket near the door. Meanwhile, the Master donned a pair of soft gloves he kept hanging in his belt. He gingerly unwrapped the cloth but Thengel stopped him at the last fold still obscuring the canvas.

"If you will allow me," Thengel said, taking the corner of the cloth. He could just see the brass plate at the bottom of the frame.

The Wayward Son in Exile. The lamplight glinted off the engraved words and suddenly Thengel found himself afraid to confront what lay beneath the cloth and whatever sensations it would awaken. Certainly he did not want a near stranger to witness it.

"You may go."

Master Pengoloth puffed his cheeks, not pleased with the dismissal, but not daring to refuse a prince. Reluctantly, he retraced his steps out of the anteroom, saying that he would just run up to his study for a minute or two.

Now alone, Thengel turned aside the cloth, then glanced at the painting quickly the way one tore off a scab. Then he drew the cloth back over the image and sat down. A piece of paper fluttered out from the wrappings and drifted to the floor. He bent to pick it up.

It read:

Then are we all undone.

It is not possible, it cannot be,

The king should keep his word in loving us...

My nephew's trespass may be well forgot;

it hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood,

And an adopted name of privilege,

A hair-brain'd Hotspur, govern'd by a spleen.***

Thengel recognized the passage from a play, which had not been written about him. But it fit the painting rather well, if out of context. He could hear Uncle Oswin's bear-like voice in each word. Hair-brain'd Hotspur, govern'd by a spleen. It was as if the playwright had met the marshal, a voice he remembered with better clarity than his own father's.

He turned the cloth over again to have another look, this time allowing himself to go more slowly. Teitherion's style struck Thengel as unusual. Bold strokes of oil gave the impression of form, with the barest outline of light or color to rein it in. Thengel had to look at the painting from a distance to make it out. The closer he stood, the less sense the brush strokes made. It forced him to take in the whole.

The whole of it consisted of the high street hemmed in by the towering buildings of Minas Tirith as it wound toward the next circle gate. A gray gelding seemed to snort a challenge at the pressing crowd. A beam of sunlight slanted downward, drawing the eye toward a grim-faced boy with jumbled, golden hair. Thengel hadn't known he'd worn such a hard expression. On the inside he had felt nothing but terror and the growing reality of his new situation. Exile. Around the boy, the faces of the crowd were formless, unintelligible, unrecognizable. It felt as if Teitherion meant to capture all of Thengel's innermost feelings that day. Yet how had had the artist known?

Thengel sat down on the bench beneath the table. He hadn't known which moment Teitherion would capture, but he remembered that day with immediate clarity. The fear, the pride, and the only familiar sensation being the horse that carried him, Firewave. Thengel grimaced. Fyrwylm, he should have thought.

Uncle Oswin hadn't let Thengel return for Brymwylm that last night in Meduseld, the beautiful stallion he had received for his eighteenth birthday. Instead, Thengel had threatened his father, received a death sentence, and had to settle for a borrowed gelding. He had christened Fyrwylm along the escape route to Firienholt where he was to meet up with his first honor guard in exile.

They had become friends despite Fyrwylm's habit of snorting spit and grass in Thengel's face whenever he could. Teitherion had captured some of that brutish trait in his rendering of Fyrwylm. That horse had become Thengel's one comfort on that terrible ride into Minas Tirith, a city that seemed to reach into the sky. So full of people and their odd language and dark looks that Thengel swore he'd rather face a pack of orcs than allow himself to be swallowed by the great gates gaping over the Pelennor. At least he knew what to expect from orcs. And once he entered that city, it would be absolutely final. He couldn't go on pretending he could go home.

Fyrwylm did, though. Go home. Thengel had sent him back to Rohan more than five years ago to enjoy a well-earned retirement racing over the plains where he'd played as a colt. For one unguarded moment, Thengel allowed himself to ache for that same green and the roar of the spring wind in the long grass as it raced down from the mountains.

A moment was enough. Or too much. The sensations Thengel feared to face when first he lifted the cloth had finally come upon him.

...

Master Pengoloth pushed the curtained door aside to enter the room. When he saw the prince, he paused for a moment, arrested by the younger man's expression. Then he quickly and quietly backed out again before Thengel could look up.

Then a man covered in road dust pushed through the curtain and stood before the table.

Thengel scowled and spoke without taking his eyes off the painting as he hastily drew the cloth back over the canvas. "I told the archivist that I was not to be disturbed."

"It's worth the nuisance in my case."

That voice reverberated through Thengel's brain. It meant one thing to him and he rose swiftly. Adan stood before him looking like he had come to the archives fresh off the street after riding all day.

"What's happened?"

The significance of his friend's appearance wasn't lost on Thengel. The ranger raised a hand toward the prince, but Thengel rounded the table to stand before him. He grasped Adan's shoulders.

"What has happened to Morwen?"

"She is well," Adan said through a grimace. "Mostly."

"Go on."

"Did you leave her alone in Imloth Melui?"

Adan managed to free himself from Thengel's grip. "Of course not. She's here in the city. We've been riding since daybreak."

Thengel looked around as if Adan had abandoned her in the archives. "Where?"

"Safe with Prince Adrahil. I delivered her there myself this afternoon."

Thengel ran his fingers through his hair, thinking. "What drove her to Minas Tirith?"

Adan looked at him strangely. "Drove, you say? Wise words. Things went from bad to worst before she asked me to bring her up, but it is Lady Morwen's business and you must ask her yourself." Adan pressed Thengel's arm when he looked ready to bolt. "Stay. She's in no immediate danger. And anyhow, she's in her cousin's keep now. What can you do for her that he can't?"

"You're right," Thengel admitted. "Of course."

"There is one thing you can do," Adan continued.

"Yes?"

Adan's lips curled sourly. "Lord Halmir knows by now that I traveled with her."

Thengel considered his road-worn friend. "Come, you'll stay in my home. Then tomorrow we will go to Ecthelion together to see what can be done about it."

Adan shook Thengel's hand. "That is exactly what I wish." Then he looked down at the half-covered painting. "What were you looking at?"

Thengel steered Adan away from the painting toward the curtain. "Nothing. A mere painting someone recommended to me. Let's go. Master Pengoloth will want to put it away."

Together they passed through the antechamber and began the long ascent to the top.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Battle of Five Armies (complete with battle pigs, if you believe the film) occurred on November 23, 2941, preceding the events of this story. It is now early April 2942 and Bilbo and Gandalf have yet to arrive again in Rivendell. Gondor has been enjoying the fallout without that mess without knowing the reason. Sauron, though having fled to Mordor, will not announce himself until 2951 - two years before Thengel takes the throne in Rohan and Ecthelion succeeds his father as Steward. Auspicious beginning.
> 
> **Thengel recalls this in another short story I wrote called, The Scout and the Rider.
> 
> *** William Shakespeare's Henry IV pt. 1 V,2,2773,


	20. Adrahil and Aranel

Morwen stood wearily before the grand staircase dominating the ground floor of the home belonging to the Princes of Dol Amroth. Adan had left her at the door to seek Prince Thengel. Before bringing her things in, he had asked if she wished to send any message to the prince, but she had declined. Instead, she had asked him not to discuss anything he had witnessed in Imloth Melui of her cousin's behavior. Not that Adan or Prince Thengel wouldn't be discrete, but it only took one unobserved servant or an overheard conversation in the street to start rumors. She hoped to keep the story away from the tongue-waggers as long as possible. Not that anyone would pay attention to the name of Morwen of Lossarnach, but Halmir was known in the city. That and the nature of the situation were bound to arouse interest and she wished more than anything to keep her family from that kind of exposure.

Now, the servant who answered the door had gone in search of his master and she had refused his offer to show her into the drawing room. She imagined herself tracking in all the dirt from the road into her cousin's fine room and grinding it into the upholstery wherever she sat. It wouldn't do. Besides, the thought of sitting made her bruised legs and backside throb. Though, come to think of it, they were throbbing anyway. What difference would it make? She was just looking about for a chair when she heard someone on the stairs. Echoes of footsteps grew louder with each turn of the banister until she saw a tall fellow rapidly turn the corner and come into view, skipping steps as he went along. She lifted her chin and rose to her full height as soon as she saw him. Yes, she had run away from Halmir with her tail between her legs, but she didn't intend to look like she had.

"Ye gods, Morwen!"

Adrahil paused midway down the steps then adopted a slower, statelier stride. He looked well, if greatly concerned by seeing her. In studying his face she could see echoes of her father's and it gave her both pain and pleasure. They had the same expressive gray eyes, narrow nose and a diamond-shaped jaw. His black hair swept his shoulders. He had cut it since his marriage, she reflected. If Adrahil could be accused of any vanity, it was with his hair and he had always worn it long.

"Did you come by yourself?" he called. "Where's Beldir?"

"In bed with a broken leg," she told him. "My traveling companion has gone to seek his own lodgings."

"Who?"

"A man called Adan."

"Who?"

"Adan," she shouted. When Adrahil looked concerned, she added, "Can't we talk at the bottom of the stair? I hate shouting."

When Adrahil reached the floor he embraced his cousin. Morwen tried to stand tall and stoic, but once she felt the warm security of his arms, any pretense of that kind melted away. She leaned into him.

"Why, Morwen, what is the matter?" he asked into her hair. "We received your letter yesterday, but it raised more questions than answers. Thank the Valar it wasn't delayed another day or you might have missed us altogether."

Morwen pushed away from him, blinking some betraying fragment out of her eye. "Missed you?"

"Yes. We were supposed to leave for Dol Amroth today."

She looked so alarmed that he hugged her again. "Nevermind. A little delay won't matter. It's good to see you, besides. I regret that Aranel and I missed the cherry trees this year."

"I'm getting dirt all over your clothes," she murmured into his chest.

"Lossarnach dirt, as you know, never hurt anyone," he said stoutly. That made Morwen laugh quietly. "Come along, you're dead on your feet. Aranel says you're to wash, eat, sleep, and then we will discuss your letter - exactly in that order. Never mind about your bag. Dineth will bring it up."

Morwen allowed herself to be led upstairs by her cousin, relieved to have his arm to lean on. Her legs were in revolt, unaccustomed as they were to such a long ride. They had also forgotten the long, steep stairs that were the staple of Minas Tirith's townhouses.

"Where is Aranel?" she asked when they reached a landing.

"In her rooms." He glanced around, and then lowered his voice. "She had another attack in her lungs this morning so on the whole I think it's better we didn't sail first thing."

"Is it very bad?" Morwen asked.

"It can be," he said gravely. "One never knows when an attack will begin and then it knocks her off her feet completely, sometimes for days. The worst is trying not to panic when her breathing becomes a struggle." He paused and a grim expression darkened his face. "On second thought, the worst is when her mother hovers about. I swear the woman only makes Aranel more anxious when she tries to nurse her. That won't be the case in Dol Amroth, for she certainly won't be invited as long as I can help it."

"And the healers? Do their opinions coincide with yours?"

"Aranel's an old friend of theirs," he said dryly. "Frankly, I think they don't know what they're doing. One suggested she drink honey with a paste made from…no, I won't tell you. It's too disgusting. But the sea air will do her good, of that I'm certain. Minas Tirith may be dry, but Dol Amroth doesn't have half the dust."

"It doesn't need dust," Morwen replied, "with all that sand."

A humbled grin spread over Adrahil's face. "No, I guess not."

"Won't Aranel miss her family?"

Adrahil sighed forcefully. "It will be a much needed break. I'm very fond of Lord Belehir and Lady Rian, but in their hearts she is still the Keeper of the Key's daughter and should be fully at their disposal whenever they want her. They like to forget that she is a princess of Dol Amroth and my wife. We can't stay in Minas Tirith forever." He passed a hand over his face as he spoke.

"In other words, you want to be left alone," she said sympathetically.

"Exactly, my girl." He smiled at her. "Aranel's mother was eager enough to leave us alone while I courted her, but now she's a daily fixture in this house. Remember, Morwen, a newlywed can never see too little of his in-laws."

"Or any of one's relations," she replied. "Present company excepted."

"Thank you!" Adrahil laughed.

"Can't you give Lady Rian a hint that you want to be left alone?"

"Short of bolting the door, you mean? She would only come in through the kitchen or undermine the pantry." His mirth evaporated. "Morwen, about your letter. Why didn't you write to me before this got out of hand? You know I'm always at your service."

Morwen gripped the banister till her knuckles turned white. "I thought I could handle Halmir on his own." She frowned deeply. "I can't always come running to you when there's trouble."

"But now?"

"But now he's revealed a scheme that will ruin the house and me along with it."

Adrahil sober gray eyes studied her. "Because he wants to marry you?"

"Because he borrowed a large sum of money and indebted himself to his friends."

Adrahil whistled. "That never ends badly."

Morwen gave him a pleading look.

"Sorry. We'll talk more on that later. Here's Dineth again to take care of you."

He passed her on to the charge of Aranel's maid. Though she knew the house very well, she allowed herself to be led around to the bath where she could clear away the memory of the road.

…

Morwen awoke the next day having never seen Aranel or Adrahil after her bath. The mixture of a full day's riding, chronic poor sleep since Halmir's arrival, and oppressed spirits had combined to keep her in bed from the moment she laid her head down for a brief rest. No one disturbed her and so she awoke with fresh morning light on her face, much earlier than usual without the obstruction of the beloved valley walls of Imloth Melui.

Morwen rolled onto her back and hugged one of the many pillows to her chest. The mattress seemed to drag her downward toward more sleep, but she yawned and fought it off. She never lounged like this at home. By now she would be catching up with Beldir to begin the work of the day. The wind would be in her hair and she'd have a horsefly bite on her arm. The dogs would be scaring off the birds and squirrels. And then she'd have to rescue Gundor from one of his blunders. Morwen smiled for as long as she could before Halmir appeared on the edge of her imagination to spoil it.

The change in scenery had already begun its magical transformation on her mind, even if it couldn't entirely eliminate the dread she felt. She never thought she would feel happier to leave Lossarnach. The oppressive air in the valley since Halmir and Hundor's arrival seemed to slip from her shoulders like a suffocating mantle as the road stretched onward. She could remember her home the way it had been, but never for very long.

She would be in her orchard right now if Adan hadn't put himself forward as an accomplice. They'd left the house before dawn with only Hareth and Gildis to see them off, and a hasty note from Midhel.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. A few of Halmir's men were awake and sitting around a little fire. They had observed all of Adan's movements and no doubt reported it. Her chest squeezed painfully around her rapidly beating heart, restricting her breath as she wondered what Halmir was doing right this moment without her presence to check him.

She breathed deeply for several minutes without much effect. The anxiety Halmir provoked would do her more harm over the long run, she knew, than the actuality of his threats. His bullying, his disregard, his foolishness, his caprice would always cause her pain and weariness long after she got used to Bar-en-Ferin being leveled and rebuilt to suit his fancy. She had to extricate herself from Halmir one way or another, and for that she would need help.

Adrahil remained her last hope.

…

Her first opportunity to speak to her cousins came after breakfast. They were seated in Aranel's chambers where Morwen had unfolded all the events of the past several weeks.

Aranel looked wan the way a woman does in a painting. Her illness looked beatific and her weakness accentuated dreamy, dark eyes and sorrowful lips. Next to this woman, Morwen felt like a red-faced farm girl. Aranel was Adrahil's age, Morwen knew, and her father was the highest official in Minas Tirith under the Steward, and here they were chatting away in her dressing room like it was a matter of state.

Though she barely knew Morwen, Aranel had placed herself next to her and took her hand in a motherly fashion. She could feel every callus and scrape on Morwen's hands and fingers, but never said a word about them. Morwen liked her already.

The prince and his wife had been discussing the matter between them while Morwen's tired mind wandered in and out of the conversation. Each word seemed like an added steel band around her heart that constricted as time went by so she distracted herself with other things.

"But I thought the land legally belonged to Randir," Morwen heard Aranel say while she was thinking about her callouses. "Didn't Hador give it to him?"

"No. Hador is Morwen's grandfather. Her great uncle Hathol, Halgemir's heir and Halmir's grandfather, leased the land to Randir through Hirwen."

"Which one is Halgemir again?" Aranel pressed delicate fingers to her temple as the names rolled on. If the names weren't already so familiar to Morwen, she might have done the same. The naming conventions on her mother's side could baffle even the Wise.

"If Randir owned the land, Hathol's line would lose the rents and valuable property," Adrahil droned on. "He wouldn't allow Imloth Melui to go outside the family."

"But Hirwen was Hathol's niece." She looked expressively at Morwen. "It is still in the family."

Adrahil scratched his jaw while he thought.

"A niece doesn't have the same…er, rights, as a son or even a nephew, Aranel," Adrahil pointed out. "If Hirwen had been his nephew, the estate would have remained inside the family. Hador had to consider the possibility that down the line one of his heirs might have more than one son to provide for and he couldn't give it away to a woman who, by marriage, would belong to another family. If Morwen inherited the land from Hirwen, the land would fall away from Hathol's line and belong in name to Randir's line."

"The Princes of Belfalas, you mean?" she asked.

Adrahil nodded. Morwen wanted to sink into the floor. She hadn't considered any this and began to deeply regret the vague terms of her hold on Bar-en-Ferin. Had her parents anticipated any trouble, she might have been spared - either from the fond attachment to a home she believed to be permanent, or else to have had it safeguarded for her through a binding contract.

Aranel leaned forward in her seat as she continued to question Adrahil, although she looked as tired as Morwen felt. She was new to the family and didn't know all the intricacies. Morwen could be considered a distant relation, and her connection to Adrahil took some explaining. Her closeness to him owed entirely to her father's insistence on maintaining contact with any relation he could dig up, no matter how obscure. He had been a prolific correspondent.

Then, it nearly took a scholar-like tenacity to untangle her mother's line, if only for the irritating habit of naming descendants with those beginning with the letter H. Ferneth finally broke that tradition with the birth of her son, Forlong. But then, Hardang hadn't been present at his son's birth to gainsay Ferneth, had he?

Now, as Aranel tried to puzzle out the situation and understand everyone's position in the event, something in her face made Morwen think of an owl, perhaps the way her dark eyes focused on her husband's face, and her head turned slightly to the side as she spoke. Given Aranel's position in life, she had a taste for the sort of situation Morwen had landed herself in. It made Aranel a good choice for the wife of a prince. Morwen didn't envy her.

"Then Randir ought to have taken Hirwen's line as his own," Aranel concluded. "If only to guarantee Morwen's claim on the property."

Morwen looked at her cousin's wife, startled by the idea.

Adrahil shot Morwen a glance before answering, "Randir descended from princes of Belfalas - it would have been unconscionable to dissolve his own connection for…"

"An inferior family," Morwen finished.

Adrahil looked hurt. "I don't mean that, Morwen. You know how highly your father valued his Dol Amroth connections. I would never sneer at the house of Lossarnach myself."

"I know. I'm betraying my own feelings at the moment."

While Hardang was alive she had something to be proud of. Now she saw only a low sort of meanness in her mother's relations. And while there was nothing pompous about Randir, he had always tended to his familial pride, which had always been his motivator and his object of study. It framed his life in the way the orchard had framed her mother's.

"What I don't understand," Aranel continued, steering the conversation back to the main, "is that Hardang didn't seem to think he needed Imloth Melui to provide for his brothers. So why should Halmir reclaim it now? Morwen's father passed away a year ago - and Hirwen…" she lowered her voice. "It's been years from what you've told me."

"Hardang didn't yet have an heir, leaving Halmir as next in line, and for one reason or another honored the lease rather than exercise his right to absorb the land under his own or Halmir's management," Adrahil reasoned. "Hardang, I suppose, felt a moral obligation to Morwen. Only a beast would take a farm away from a tenant in good standing. Of course, the tribute received from Imloth Melui is no small matter, which Halmir might have been less willing to pay out to his brother. Isn't that right, Morwen?" He went on before she could reply. "As for Halmir, he had no choice but to obey his brother while he lived."

"Then can't Halmir be happy with Arnach?"

At last Morwen spoke. "I think I might understand it better now than I did at first. You see, Hardang's wife Ferneth gave birth to a son not a week after we received the news of his death. Halmir is no longer the next in line for the fiefdom…and there is Hundor to consider."

Adrahil pressed his fingers into his eyes. "There's nothing worse than a plague of disenfranchised sons to consider." He glanced at Aranel as if to note the matter between them. Then he said, "Halmir will settle for Bar-en-Ferin if he can't have Arnach."

"Why doesn't Halmir just take the plantation, if it's his right?" Aranel asked. "Why does he insist you marry him? Have you ever considered Halmir before now?"

Morwen cringed. "As a husband? Stars, no. Why should I? I haven't considered anyone."

Her cousins stared at her with identical expressions of incredulity. Morwen fleetingly wondered if that's what happened to married people.

"Morwen," said Aranel. "Be serious. You haven't thought about marriage at all?"

"Very little," she answered.

Certainly not in personal terms. Marriage happened to other people. She had grown up in a happy home and had arrived at the threshold of adulthood with a vocation and a purpose. Her romantic inclinations were more vague compared to girls who might wish to escape less fortunate domestic situations. The miller's many daughters came to mind.

She had her hands full with the orchard, yes, but she had also been grappling with the loss of a parent and learning to be independent. And there was another aspect to consider - the limited population of Imloth Melui. Whom could she marry? Her choices were beekeepers and woodcutters. Who else? Beldir? Gundor? Most of her neighbors worked for her at some time during the year. While she didn't think that made her in any way superior to anyone, still, the young men treated her with diffidence. No. Marriage was a distant prospect and something she probably would have left to her father and his web of contacts had he lived longer.

"Well, I'd say it's time to look at it as necessary. The truth is," Adrahil spoke with a gentle but firm voice. He wasn't going to honey the truth, but he didn't want to crush her feelings. "Tenants have no guarantee of succession of leased land except by the will of their lord. Hardang honored your claim to hold Bar-en-Ferin after your father, but that was by his good will. The estate is in jeopardy unless you secure your own claim - and defend it."

Adrahil's words had a restorative effect on Morwen. She felt awake for the first time and not a little angry. "And how am I to do that?"

"You might buy the land. If he won't sell, however, then there is one other way and he has already presented it to you," said Adrahil grimly.

"I feel sick," said Morwen into her hands. "All I want is my household and my orchards in order and a carrier sending my fruit to market. And don't tell me Halmir comes as a suitor," she added, holding her palm up when Adrahil and Aranel both tried to speak. "Lovers don't bring a small army to pay court."

Aranel looked hurt. "Adrahil didn't mean you should marry Halmir. Of course you can't marry him. He's amoral. But you have to face facts. Unless Hardang's family continues to recognize the verbal agreement between Hador—"

"—Hathol."

"Yes…and Randir, you will be out of a household and an income. You will have to marry. Really, Morwen, there could be worse fates."

Morwen felt a cold sweat all over her just thinking about it. She had everything she ever wanted. Not only were they going to take it away, but they wanted her to be happy with second best!

"Can nothing truly be done?" She looked pleadingly at Adrahil. "What about the Steward's court?"

Adrahil hesitated. "We can try it, but I'm afraid Turgon interferes as little as possible with the lords' rulings within their own fiefs. Certainly not in a case like this when the lord is acting within his rights."

"But he isn't the Lord of Lossarnach, only the regent. Surely this is a special case."

"I'll arrange to meet with Turgon as soon as may be," Adrahil promised. "But I…I don't want you to depend too greatly on it. We can bring the case before the Steward's court, but you have little to go on and he will not be willing to interfere."

"Isn't that his duty as steward?" she asked.

Adrahil gave her a look that wasn't condescending so much as brotherly frustration at her stupidity. "The Steward defends the realm against outer enemies and maintains the interests of the throne. He wouldn't risk the anger of the barons, my father included, who will rightly begin to fear further encroachment on their affairs."

Morwen clutched the chair as a wave of loss swept over her. She hadn't realized how strongly she depended on Adrahil to present a solution. Hearing the doubt in his voice left her nearly breathless with desperation.

"Then it is hopeless," she said, feeling like the floor had fallen out from under her. Her mind reeled. "What am I going to do?"

"I'm sorry, Morwen." Adrahil truly was, but he wasn't going to lie to her. She hated and appreciated him for it. "While you're here, I think it will be best for you to consider the possibility that you will either have to marry Halmir to keep Bar-en-Ferin, or you will have to make a fresh start somewhere else. I'm not entirely sure what your financial prospects are, but I can help you learn what you can afford to do."

Could she purchase a small home in Imloth Melui? But how would she earn a living? And could she bear to live within sight of the eaves of her former home? Where else could she go?

"Come with us to Dol Amroth for the summer," Aranel invited, as if reading her mind. "The change in scenery might provide you with inspiration."

Morwen shook her head. "I can't leave now. I shouldn't have left at all. In a little while we'll be up to our ears in fruit and preparing for market. Then there's the apples in the fall…" A pang ran through her chest. If Halmir would just be patient and allow her one more autumn, then maybe she could consider walking away. Then she could at least prove to herself that she had done it. If she could run Bar-en-Ferin, she could run any household. It had already ceased to feel like home, but she hadn't proved herself yet.

When she made signs of rising, Adrahil stopped her.

"There is one point in your story I'd like to go back to," he continued slowly. "What is Prince Thengel's interest in all this?"

"Prince Thengel?" Morwen blinked at him, surprised by the change in direction.

"I learned before your arrival that Prince Thengel had been in Lossarnach and I've heard you mention him now several times in your narrative. I had no idea that you knew him."

Aranel looked at Morwen with interest. "How is he involved in all this?"

"Oh," said Morwen tiredly as she slumped back into her seat. "He isn't involved at all. His guard wants to marry my cook."

Adrahil and Aranel exchanged glances.

"Pardon?" Adrahil asked.

"They were my guests, the prince and all this men."

"Your guest at Bar-en-Ferin?"

"Well, yes." He couldn't be her guest anywhere else.

"How did that happen?"

"An accident with a fallen tree brought them to me." She saw their confused expressions and sighed. "Prince Thengel fought alongside Hardang in Ithilien, as you know. He came to pay his respects in Arnach, but didn't make it there because of the accident."

Adrahil scratched his head. "But how did they come to be in Imloth Melui in the first place? It's completely out of the way of Arnach."

"I don't know. A shortcut to venison," Morwen said tartly, her shoulders drooping. Ashamed as she was to discover that his attempted visit was only a means of escaping less pleasant business in Minas Tirith, she wasn't going to blacken his name to her cousins. It felt painful enough for her to know it and for some indefinable reason she felt protective of his reputation.

"Venison?" Adrahil parroted. "He went out of his way to hunt?"

"Don't ask me to explain the actions of princes," Morwen mumbled. "I grow fruit."

"Well, nevermind that," said Aranel with a determined, steely look in her eyes. "You're here now. Adrahil will see what can be done with the Steward - and I dare say I can recruit my father. But that will take time. You could be here for a fortnight before he can see Turgon, especially with all the to-do going on with those ambassadors from the north. In the meantime we will make sure that you are so amused you won't think for two minutes about Halmir or Hundor, or whoever they are." That sounded vaguely like a threat to Morwen, but Aranel seemed cheered up by the thought. "There's to be a feast - Adrahil, I completely forgot about it because we were supposed to be gone already! I'll write to Lady Idhren today to let her know that we will attend after all. What a fine thing for Morwen!"

Adrahil and Morwen gave each other mirrored looks of confusion.

"How so?" he asked.

"I dare say she's never been to a feast at Marathrond. They are quite rare these days." She rounded on Morwen, saying, "There will be dancing and interesting people to look at. It will be worth it just to see the place lit up. We can introduce you to the Steward," she added hastily when Morwen began to look alarmed. "Which we may not be able to do before hand. It will only help you gain his favor."

Morwen considered this. "That is a good point." Then her countenance clouded over. "But I won't really know anyone."

Aranel studied her husband while she thought over who would be there. She brightened again. "Prince Thengel will be there, I don't doubt, and you know him!" Aranel gave a little laugh. "Why, you'll practically be related once your cook marries his guard."

Morwen's color changed several times, which her cousins noted with interest. Of course, Aranel was only joking, but it was somewhat true. They wouldn't be related, but they would have a connection. Would Guthere quit his post to stay with Hareth? She would have to explain this development to the Prince.

Very quietly Morwen said, "I don't have a dress." Not after she had dumped wine down the front of it.

An angelic smile suffused Aranel's face. "My dear, I can fix that. Leave everything to me…and my mother."


	21. Favors and Favorites

Thengel and Adan left the house early the next morning. When they were clear of the door, Adan turned around to stare at the house's facade. He whistled. Thengel gave him an inquiring look.

"It seems to me like you could have used an ally before now. Your sister…." His voice broke. "I think she growled at me at supper last night."

Thengel shrugged. "It's an automatic response. She doesn't know she does it."

"And your uncle, he never stopped talking once."

"Does that surprise you?"

"No. Well, yes. Whenever you talked about him, I always imagined an older version of Cenhelm. Grave and ponderous and occasionally forbidding. Marshal Oswin's more of an ox. Maybe he won't stampede you, but if he starts to lean on you, it's best to move quick."

Thengel's laughter echoed around the courtyard until Wynflaed's face appeared in a window, cutting off his mirth. He led Adan toward the street before she could pursue them. Once they were clear of gate, they turned in opposite directions, Adan toward the seventh gate and Thengel toward the sixth.

Thengel tapped Adan on the arm. "This way."

Adan looked puzzled. "But aren't we going to the Steward's home?"

"We are, but there's important business to attend to first."

Adan followed him down several levels toward the market. They stopped outside a shop that looked like it had belched up half its stock onto the curb. Crude crates of wooden dogs and horses with fixed painted grins stared at them next to baskets of long sticks dripping ribbon onto the stones. Thengel stopped before a pile of assorted weapons. Three boys were also considering them while giving covert glances at the master of the toyshop, just visible through the darkened door. The methodic scraping of a knife against wood could be heard from within.

Adan picked up a wooden sword lying in a pile and slashed the air with it. The boys scattered.

"Are you going to convince Captain Ecthelion to equip us with ash swords?"

Thengel shrugged. "It would cut expenses."

"Indeed." Adan held the blade before him and stared down its length. Two women walking arm in arm past the shop gave them a wide berth. "You don't have to clothe and feed dead soldiers, which we would all soon be when armed with only these."

"I don't know," Thengel replied. "The orcs might die of laughter once they saw you coming."

Adan gave him a sarcastic grin and dropped the sword back on the pile. "If it's all the same to you, my friend," he said, "I prefer steel. "

"Lucky for you we're not here for toys. Come inside."

…

It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the bright sun reflecting off the white city walls to the gentle dimness within the shop. Sturdy wooden shelves lined the walls, crowded with all manner of toys. Soft stuffed dragons, wooden charging lions fitted with wheels, odd puzzles made from iron scraps, and filigree crowns where some of the wares. Thengel ignored these and made for a heavy-set man sitting on a stool beside a workbench at the far end of the room. On the wall above the table, hammers, awls, saws, rolls of sandpaper, and myriad other tools hung. Wood shavings formed a nest around the stool and a crutch leaning against the table. The proprietor was missing a leg from the knee down. When he recognized his patrons, the toymaker reached for his crutch to rise, but Thengel waved him down.

"Tegilbor, you remember Adan?"

"I should hope so, though it's been the better part of twelve years since they dragged me out of Ithilien." He shook hands with Adan. "A poisoned arrow just below the knee, you remember."

"It's always an arrow to the knee." They laughed. Adan gestured toward the door. "I thought those wooden swords out front looked familiar."

Tegilbor beamed. "Aye. All in the handle. I fashioned them after the ones issued to us back when Mormagil was still the Steward's master blacksmith. A work of art, they were. Perfectly balanced and not a weapon I'd be ashamed to wear in Marathrond on a feast day."

"Beautiful," Adan agreed. "How did you go into toy making?"

"I always liked working with wood and we all learned to be handy with a needle and thread out in the wilderness. I can sew a mean-looking dragon, and as it happens, they're very popular at the moment. It was Prince Thengel who gave me the idea. He helped me set up shop. Brought me custom. Once it got around that the Steward's grandson had toys from Tegilbor, it's been all I could do to keep up." He kicked at some of the sawdust under his foot. "Haven't had a moment's peace. I'm not sure I should thank him or blame him!"

"Listen, Tegilbor," Thengel interrupted with a laugh. "Blame me later. Right now I need a book recommendation."

"Of course." Tegilbor pursed his lips, thinking. "And how did the young critic enjoy the last story? Silverbeard it was, I think."

"He said he liked the adventure very much, but he could tell it was written by an adult."

"Oh?"

"I believe he felt disappointed that the hero handed over the map to the grownups and didn't go in search of the treasure by himself."

Tegilbor raised his eyebrows. "I'm falling down on the job, I see. Well, let me think." The toymaker turned to the wall containing nothing but books, scanning over every brightly colored spine. "Do you think he's perhaps ready to move on to biography? Not straight biography, of course. But we have this fictionalized account of Tuor Eladar's early days, which he might enjoy. Conveniently, it's mum about tricky romance business which young boys can't be bothered with just yet."

"What is it called?"

"My Side of Mithrim. It has enough oppressive adults, scrapes, orcs, and narrow escapes to turn a young man's head giddy."

"Illustrations?"

"Only a handful of rather grim woodcuts." Tegilbor held up a finger. "And not a single talking animal. I remember that was a sore point."

Thengel purchased the book and before long they were making their way back up the levels to the Steward's home. Adan was quiet most of that time.

"Everything all right, Adan?" Thengel asked.

"I was just thinking of Tegilbor," he answered. "I lost track of him and quite a few of the other men who were mangled by the enemy over the years. Didn't know you set him up like that. That's decent. It's not easy for 'em to move on sometimes."

Thengel shrugged. "He just needed a leg up." He grimaced. "Literally, in fact."

Adan jabbed his thumb at the parcel tucked under Thengel's arm. "That children's book isn't for Captain Ecthelion?"

Thengel's eyes brightened. "No, this is for his boy. I never visit Ecthelion at home without something in hand."

"Should I have something?"

"No, don't worry. I'm something of the boy's guardian, you see."

"Ah."

When they were again on the sixth level, close to the archives, Thengel stopped outside a grand house protected by a wall and ornate gate. He peered into the courtyard between the bars. "This is the residence for the Princes of Dol Amroth."

"Yes, this is where I brought Lady Morwen yesterday. She seemed to know the place pretty well."

Thengel nodded and continued on. "What was it like at Bar-en-Ferin after we left?"

Adan's expression closed. "Well, I'm not supposed to say."

Thengel gave him a cutting look. "What do you mean?"

"Lady Morwen says I'm not to talk to you about it. Especially not to you."

Thengel felt affronted. "Why in Béma's name not?"

Adan shrugged. "She's embarrassed, I guess. I would be if I had a great bullying cousin like Lord Halmir."

Embarrassed for Thengel to know? He already knew most of it. Didn't she think she could trust him? Absurd.

"At least tell me what you've been up against so I can explain it to Ecthelion," Thengel said gruffly.

Adan gave Thengel a strange look. "I don't see why it should make you angry."

"I'm not angry."

"If you say so." Adan shrugged. "Anyway, the last few days were chaotic. I had my hands full keeping the men in line. Half of them don't care a wit for authority and their superiors were in no better state anyway. They're bored."

Boredom among soldiers never boded well, especially when they were being managed by indolent men like Halmir. Yet another example of the man's stupidity.

"Did Morwen have any help?"

"I helped where I could, but Lord Halmir's patience with me didn't last long. And her man, the scarecrow…"

"Beldir."

"Yes, him. He had an accident a few days ago just as the lady was thinking to come up to Minas Tirith herself. Broke a leg."

"He was to come along with her?"

"Yes."

Thengel laughed dryly. "Of course." Then he asked, "How did it happen that you came? Was it Morwen's idea?"

"I offered. I sometimes talk with the women of the household and so that's how I heard of it. The thought hadn't occurred to Lady Morwen that someone else could accompany her and she wasn't fool enough to come by herself. Truthfully, I think she didn't like the plan at first, because who would be around to quell the lads? But I could see she needed to get on the road."

"Why?"

Adan swallowed hard. "I'm not breaking my promise - not really, because I'm going to tell you something the lady doesn't know herself."

Thengel stopped. "What is it?"

Adan looked around and lowered his voice. "Lord Halmir has ordered some axes. Not the ones we're all carrying about for show. Real, serviceable axes. For trees."

Thengel felt the heat rising in his throat. He gripped Adan's arm. "No."

"Oh, he's ready to force her hand—" Adan shut his mouth.

"What do you mean?"

Adan shrugged. "I don't mind telling you what I know from our end and about Lord Halmir's plans for us, but not all of this is my business. I'm sure if you spoke to the lady yourself, she would be forthcoming."

Forthcoming. And when would he speak to her? This wasn't the country. In Minas Tirith there were rules about visiting single women. He would have to visit Adrahil first and hope for an invitation from Princess Aranel. They would drink tea. Maybe he would be invited to dinner. And then he might be permitted to speak to Morwen alone. The whole rigmarole could take the better part of a week. Would she stay that long with Bar-en-Ferin hanging in the balance?

And then would she deign to confide in him? What had he done to make her want to keep secrets? And, Béma, if she didn't want him involved, why was he so determined?

Because of Guthere. Yes, because of Guthere. He owed her a debt and if he happened to feel genuine concern it only proved that he was capable of fellow feeling.

"Hey, wait up," Adan called. Only then did Thengel realize that he'd stalked onward at a quick pace, leaving his companion in the dust.

…

"What? You're just going to walk in?" Adan said nervously. He eyed the two guards standing sentinel on the steps below. They'd allowed the two men to come this far, but it felt like a trap.

Thengel stalled mid-push, and instead leaned against the front door. He looked puzzled.

"Why not?"

"Well, it's the Steward's house!"

"This was my home for the better part of twenty years, Adan," he said dryly. "If I started ringing the bell now they'd never recover from the shock."

"That's fine for you. I'm just a soldier," Adan grumbled. "Someone with my ugly mug would get arrested for walking in like that. I'll wait out here."

Thengel nodded. "I won't be long."

Adan went to find a comfortable place to sit in the courtyard, preferably with his back to the dead tree. The Steward's guards standing seemed not to see him, which only made him feel more conspicuous.

…

A servant met Thengel at the door.

"Welcome, Prince Thengel. Lord Ecthelion is in his study."

"Thank you, Mallor. Are the Lakemen with him?"

"Not yet, my lord. They are sitting with the Steward."

"Where's the lady of the house?"

The servant led Thengel to the drawing room. Two women were sitting together. He recognized Idhren's companion, a rabbit-like woman, reading aloud from a book while her mistress, a far grander woman sat embroidering a piece of muslin set in a hoop. Niniel broke off mid sentence when the servant admitted Thengel, and closing her book, dipped into a curtsey and left the room without a look at him. He could never tell if his maleness oppressed her or the fact that he wasn't a Gondorian.

Ecthelion's wife rose and put aside her sewing. She moved toward him with a grace that always made everyone in the room look like bumblers. He had known her from his earliest days in Minas Tirith and she looked unchanged. Her black hair fell straight and shining down her back, never out of place, never bound. Her eyes were a blue so light they looked almost like ice in a painting. Not an exact representation, but as soon as you saw them you recognized it.

"Idhren." Thengel dropped the book on a small table as she clasped his hands in her own. They were soft and smooth and smelled of gardenia oil. She allowed him to kiss her cheek. "Sorry to interrupt. Niniel will be put out."

"Nonsense, darling. It will give her voice a break," she said lightly. "Why haven't you come to see me before? You've been home for over two weeks. I call that very shabby. After all, I've made your sister's acquaintance. You've had ample opportunity."

He grimaced. "Can you forgive me?"

Idhren sighed, withdrawing her hands. "I'll try, dear, but it isn't always in my nature."

Thengel looked around him noting the balance of furniture, the windows, the fireplace, and the paintings. Impeccable, everything looked exactly in place. Some of the pieces were new, he noted. An end table, the armchair under a new painting of Denethor that didn't do justice who how fat the boy had grown. Only the workbag beside Idhren's seat wasn't ornamental. It occurred to him that something was wrong.

"Shouldn't you be up to your ears in planning for the feast? I expected the room to be covered in guest lists and menus."

Idhren's eyes flashed. "Lord no! I've delegated that task to Lady Rian. Now that her daughter is married off to Prince Adrahil she has nothing left to do with her time. And why not? Her husband is Lord Belehir. She will have access to anything she needs – so long as it requires a key." She sighed. "Besides, I have a far greater task."

Thengel looked surprised. "Greater than acting as the Steward's hostess?"

"Yes, and if you can't guess what it is then you're a fool." Her lips curled into a sly smile. "Fortunately, your sister is quite diverting."

"Ah. Yes. She asked for your help finding me a bride." Thengel shuddered. "And you agreed?"

Idhren resumed her place on the sofa and gestured for him to join her. "How could I tell her no? I did manage to lead her down some dead ends though."

"Dead ends?"

Idhren laughed, a low sound deep in her throat. "Lady Iarwen, for one."

Thengel goggled at her. "Lady Iarwen is seventy years old."

"Yes, but she's never been married and she's fabulously rich. Besides, Wynflaed didn't know any better as Iarwen doesn't look a day above fifty. An entire afternoon was wasted and all for you."

Thengel laughed, imagining Wynflaed's frustration. "How could you?"

"Well, I felt I ought to restrain her efforts until I could speak with you myself and learn your feelings on the matter." She studied him coolly. "Your family are in a terrible rush and I never like to be rushed. Besides, you deserve a fighting chance. It's unsportsmanlike to go behind your back, to borrow a phrase from my husband."

He kissed her hands. "What would I do without you?"

"I'm certain I don't know, dear." She pretended to consider the point. "I wonder why you didn't choose a wife yourself before now - not that I mind you leaving all the hard work to us, but it is peculiar for someone who likes to have his own way."

He smiled at her with affection. "Because all the women I fell in love with married my friends," he quipped.

She gave him an arch look. "You mean you let them marry your friends."

"Let them?"

Idhren leaned forward to retrieve her embroidery from atop her workbasket, partially obscuring her face as her dark hair slid over her shoulder. "Perhaps if they had known how you felt they might have chosen differently," she said loftily.

Thengel felt suddenly uncomfortable. "Not you though."

Idhren looked up at him. "Me?"

"You're happy, I mean. You're devoted to Ecthelion and always have been."

"Oh yes." Idhren laughed hollowly. "As happy as a beautiful tapestry in a house that is seldom occupied," she said with only a little acid. Before he could feel really alarmed by her tone, her eyes brightened and she changed the subject. "Tell me about this sister of yours. Am I in danger?"

Thengel leaned back against the couch and studied his boots. "Not if you cooperate. She will figure out that you've been leading her a merry dance, though. I can't answer for her behavior when she does. Shieldmaidens have little scruples."

"Shieldmaidens. What on earth are they?" Idhren stabbed the muslin with her needle, drawing a red thread through the back of the fabric, then bringing it up through the right side again.

"In Rohan women fight alongside the men. She's as much a warrior as Ecthelion."

"I'm not afraid," she said gamely.

"Good. I wouldn't want you to be."

They sat in thoughtful silence for a while as Idhren focused on her pattern. They had known each other so long and so well that the absence of speech never bothered either of them. But Thengel recalled Adan waiting in the courtyard and so he retrieved the gift from the table and made signs of rising from his comfortable seat beside her.

"Is Ecthelion home?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"He is. And Denethor too." She glanced up as if seeing them through the ceiling. "What have you brought the boy now?"

Thengel cradled the package in his hand. "Only a book. It's harmless enough."

Idhren shook her head. "You spoil him. He expects presents and sulks when he doesn't get them."

"Ecthelion said you did that."

Idhren sniffed. "Well…his father is hard on him and I do have to come to Denethor's rescue more often than not. Not that the boy appreciates it." She put project down and turned to Thengel. "Do all boys go through this phase of detesting their parents in order to prove that they've grown up?"

"Don't ask me. I was an extreme case."

She arched a delicate eyebrow. "Yes, I'd say that you were. Your poor mother."

Thengel wasn't going to discuss his mother. "Where are they?"

"Where else?" she said as she began to sew again. "Ecthelion's been locked in his war room since those Lakemen arrived. Go on up. I won't bore you."

"Never, Idhren."

"Your sister will be along shortly," she said without taking her eyes off her embroidery. "You'll meet her here if you don't hurry and then you will be beyond my help. I think she wants to go door to door canvassing for eligible women."

Thengel crossed his arms. "About that - you will tell me if she's a bother."

"Oh, I'm very amused. It's nice to feel wanted, so I won't tell her it's useless."

"Useless?"

"Useless." She sighed, knotted her thread, and cut it. "You are too stubborn for your own good, Thengel. Even if we found the perfect woman, you would reject her on the grounds that you hadn't thought of it first."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" she countered. "I know for a fact that you do what you want. But let me warn you, darling, the more stubborn you are the less of a choice you will have. Remember, I am your ally, but it wouldn't hurt for you to help yourself a little."

"I'll keep that in mind, Idhren.

"Do. Now run up and give Denethor his book. He's been locked away with his father all morning and I'm sure we're due for a crisis at any moment. If you divert it, I'll consider us even for the pains I've taken with your sister."

"I'll do my best."

"And send Niniel back in, will you? I don't care for her company much, but as long as she's reading and not trying to think an original thought, I can abide it."

He did not have to look long. Niniel had parked herself on a bench within a little alcove only a few steps down the hallway. She rose stiffly, hugging her book. Then she ducked into the drawing room before Thengel could say boo to her.

…

Thengel didn't bother to knock before letting himself into the study. Ecthelion likely wouldn't hear it anyway. In fact, the captain of Gondor's armies had his back to the door, bending over a table covered in maps. A plump lad of eleven years sat sulking in the corner window looking into the sunken garden behind the house. Thengel felt a sympathetic pang for Denethor, having spent the majority of his first years in Minas Tirith sitting in that same box seat trying to learn about his new home. Idhren hadn't stepped foot into the room since her marriage and therefore the cushions hadn't been changed in over 20 years. By now Denethor's backside should be thoroughly numb.

A heavy tome crushed the boy's lap and had started a steady descent toward the floor. Thengel could tell by the way Denethor's head was hanging that he was half asleep.

The boy's head popped up when the door closed behind Thengel with a heavy click. Thengel just managed to rescue the book from crashing to the floor.

"Uncle Thengel! Oops."

Ecthelion turned his head briefly during the scuffle, but returned his attention to his desk, ignoring them.

"Hello, my boy, what are we studying today?" Thengel turned the book to read the spine. "The Akallabeth. Hmm. Can you tell me what you read?"

Denethor shrugged. "It says that the Númenóreans started to hunt other men like swine. I don't believe it."

"No?"

"Why should they?" the boy asked.

Thengel sat down beside Denethor. "I think the Númenóreans began to think pretty highly of themselves and pretty lowly of others."

"If I were them, I'd prefer to hunt dragons, like the one that destroyed Lake-town. King Bard doesn't know how lucky he was by half. Grandfather says Smaug was the last firedrake in Middle-earth, as far as anyone knows. The Lakemen didn't sound very happy about him, but I think it would've been exciting to see the last dragon."

"Smaug destroyed their homes, my lad, and many of them lost their friends."

Denethor shrugged. "They have all that gold now. They can build whatever they like. It's a pity they killed it."

Thengel smothered a smile. He would have felt exactly the same way when he was a boy. "How so?"

"Well," Denethor droned in that way of his before he started on a long speech, much like his grandfather, Turgon. "Grandfather says that if the orcs come to murder us all in our beds then Rohirrim have to come to our aid."

"That is true, but you've lost me."

"That would take a long time, wouldn't it? Because the beacons would have to be lit and all the soldiers would have to prepare for the journey. And it takes days to ride here. But if we had a dragon we could try to tame it and teach it to gobble up all the orcs and Haradrim if they were stupid enough to attack a country with its own dragon."

"Suppose they got ahold of the dragon themselves?"

Denethor's eyebrows drooped in concentration. "They would have to get through us first, which they haven't managed to do because of Father. And you."

Thengel patted Denethor on the back. "Well, it's an interesting idea, my boy. Smaug seemed beyond training, though. Speaking of dragons," Thengel slipped the book to Denethor. "Give that a read. It should be hair-raising."

Denethor turned the book over in his hands. "What's it about?"

"Tuor the great adventurer."

Denethor wrinkled his nose. "Are there talking animals?"

"None whatever. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to have a word with your father. Run along, will you?"

"Okay."

"He's as fanciful as his mother," Ecthelion muttered once the boy left the room. "All this talk of dragons and giant eagles and skin shifters has turned his head. I can't get him to focus at all on important matters. He just sulks."

"There's time for that," Thengel intervened. "At his age, I'd steal a horse and disappear for whole days when I wanted to avoid my tutor."

Ecthelion raised an eyebrow, which was intersected by a scar he had earned in Ithilien. Thengel stood next to him to study the map too. Small pieces of sea glass were spread over the surface, congregating in key places. Dol Amroth, Pelargir, Minas Tirith, Osgiliath, Ithilien.

"What's this?"

"The Steward has commanded a sweep of Ithilien. He wants to know if more orcs are massing in Morder and where their hidey-holes are on the west side of the mountains. That's all very well, but if we start to poke at their nests we'll have to answer for it. My thought is to pull away Dagnir's company from Pelargir to Osgiliath. Then we would have ready support if a threat should arrive in either direction," Ecthelion explained.

Thengel tapped the image of double sabers below the Anduin. "And if the Haradrim attempt the crossing at Poros again? Can the southern coast afford to wait for troupes from Pelargir and Osgiliath? They would raze Lossarnach first thing to cut off our food supply. No farms, no army."

"The Haradrim have been quiet ever since your uncles licked them at Poros crossing."

"And ships from Umbar? The pirates grow bolder in the spring."

Ecthelion crossed his arms as he considered the question. "Prince Angelimir can contend with the corsairs," he said finally. "It isn't often he allows them past the delta of Anduin anyway. Keeps all the sport for himself in open waters. At least, I hope his son will convince him of that when he arrives there."

"Is Prince Adrahil planning to leave Minas Tirith?" Thengel asked, thinking instantly of Morwen.

"When last I spoke to him, yes. His wife is poorly and no air is better than Dol Amroth air for the invalid." Ecthelion didn't try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Better air, better soldiers, better everything. Let that be a lesson to you, Thengel. Get an elf in your family tree and you too can be superior to everyone."

Thengel shrugged. "I'm not that ambitious, Ecthelion. Besides, I thought all you needed was Númenórean blood for that." He winked. "I'm just a Northman myself."

Ecthelion scratched the back of his neck, diffusing. "All right, I sound like an ass."

"Yes, but I'll forgive you, at least as long as you promise not to hunt me."

"Are you afraid of being hunted?"

"Only by my sister." He tapped on the map below Minas Tirith. "Now. What about the company from Lossarnach? If they return to the eastern march, then we have no need to lessen the defense of Pelargir. The Haradrim might be quiet now, but it wouldn't take long for them to learn that the defense has slackened in the south."

"We've never used Hardang's company during the planting season," Ecthelion dismissed off hand, "not if we want to eat."

"These aren't men who have gone back to their farms, my friend. I spoke to them myself while I was there. They need something to do besides occupy peaceful orchards."

"Orchards?"

"Orchards."

Ecthelion turned and half-perched on the table. "There's a story in that."

"I'll explain later. I'm telling you now that these men have personally asked me to find a place for them. I've brought Adan with me if you want more details."

Ecthelion considered this for a time, staring into nothing. Then he asked, "Who would lead them now that Hardang's dead?"

"I could."

"You? Don't make me laugh. Thengel, you have other worries. I've been informed not to take advantage of your zeal for Gondor's security."

"Who said so?"

"My father and your uncle both."

Thengel made a noise between a growl and a groan. "How long have they been in league against me?"

"As soon as the Marshal arrived. It's not helping that you've avoided the Steward's chair. Father's put out with you," Ecthelion reached behind him and added beads from a nearby pouch to the pile in in Osgiliath and moved still more to Pelargir. "All right, say we bring a company from the south. Why all the interest in Lossarnach now, by the by?"

"I spent several weeks with Hardang's family." Then he asked, "You knew Lord Randir?"

Ecthelion looked surprised by the question. "Randir? Of course. Good man. Not a soldier though. Why?"

"I never met him."

"You arrived in Minas Tirith a few years after he quitted the city. He always did lock himself in a hole somewhere to read or write when he did come to town to work for my father. I remember when he married Hirwen. Father was angry to lose him, but it couldn't be helped. It was a terrible shame when he died. I was in Pelargir at the time and didn't get back till he was already buried. His wife died some years ago, but he has a daughter. She must be, I don't know, fifteen or sixteen now?"

"Lady Morwen is a little older than that, Ecthelion. Closer to twenty, I think."

"Twenty?" A smug look spread over Ecthelion's face, which Thengel didn't like. "Met her, did you?"

"Yes. I was her guest after Guthere's injury." He tried to imagine that same tableau playing out, only this time in Idhren's drawing room. Impossible! She would never allow anyone to bleed on her furniture. It still amazed him how Morwen and her household had taken it in stride. He wished better things for them than what Halmir had in store. They deserved better.

"Pretty?"

"Lossarnach?"

"Lady Morwen, you sod."

"Oh. Yes. She is."

"Unmarried?"

Thengel swallowed. Was she? Adan would have told him if Halmir had succeeded in bullying her into a wedding. "I believe so."

Ecthelion gave him a strange look. "You think so? Well, don't tell Idhren. She's rabid to help your sister fix you up. Thick as thieves, those two. Nothing would make her happier than to see you married. Typical woman."

Thengel shook his head. More than once he had been in the confidence of both of his friends and it still surprised him how little they sometimes understood the thoughts and motives of the other. As for himself, he felt relieved that Ecthelion's eyes returned on the map so that his discomfort went unnoticed.

"She is more than fifteen years my junior, Ecthelion."

"No one is safe in these matters. As long as she's a woman and breathing then she's eligible. Why, the fools thought Lady Iarwen a possible match."

Thengel opened his mouth to explain Idhren's rouse, but thought better of it. Ecthelion would hardly find it interesting.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you in Ithilien?" he asked, sounding choked.

Ecthelion straightened up and grinned. It made him look boyish like his son. "I wish I could help you, my friend, but the Powers That Be have already decided your doom. I must obey."

"I should have become a pirate while I had the chance," Thengel grumbled.

"You and me both." Ecthelion shook Thengel's hand. "Look, come back tonight. We're having supper with King Bard's deputies, informal and all that. You should meet them before the feast - especially the Dwarf. He's…tetchy."

Thengel sighed. "If I must."

"You must. Captain's orders. More importantly, Idhren will never forgive you if you don't and I need you to keep her in a good mood. I have to tell her that I'm cutting my leave short."

Thengel grimaced. When did it become his job to keep Ecthelion's family in order? He was learning a lot today about what Idhren may or may not have forgiven him for, but Ecthelion was the least proper person to talk to about that. His head still reeled from the revelation that Idhren might have married him fifteen years ago if he'd asked. Sure, there had been a spark there, but once he knew that Ecthelion was in love with her too, he'd backed down. It would have been impossible anyway. Idhren, queen of Rohan? No. He wasn't in love with her now and hadn't been for years, but the thought still didn't sit comfortably. It was impossible that she would have married Ecthelion while still harboring some secret affection for him. Of course it was.

His fingers itched for his sword and the shades of Ithilien where life was simpler. Harder, but simpler. He was reminded of his original errand.

"I've left Adan waiting too long. He'll be pleased to hear that he can return to Ithilien soon with the rest of his company. First, though, I want you to officially assign him to me."

"What for?"

"I recruited him to help me with a small matter against the wishes of Lord Halmir. I promised Adan protection."

Ecthelion's expression darkened. "That's a bad job, Thengel."

"I know."

"What are the particulars?"

"It's not for me to say. I wouldn't have done it if is wasn't necessary. Now Adan needs a new place."

Ecthelion crossed his arms. "And will this come back to bite me if I agree? I'm not in the mood for a diplomatic flap with Lossarnach."

"I don't think Lord Halmir will want to go against you. Do you know him at all?"

"No. Does he have a military bent?"

"None whatever," Thengel muttered.

"That explains it, then." Ecthelion thought for a while. "Do whatever you like. If Adan wishes to serve you, fine. If he has a taste for blood, send him to Seregon in Osgiliath. Satisfactory?"

Thengel bowed his head. "I'm in your debt."

"Well, who's keeping score?"

"You are."

The skin around Ecthelion's eyes crinkled with humor. "Extending one's friends a little credit is good policy. There will always be a day when you need to call in those favors. Keep that in mind when you're king."

Thengel groaned. "I've had enough of that talk these past weeks. I'm half-tempted to resign."

"Don't you dare," Ecthelion warned. "I've been working on you for twenty years. I don't want to start over on statecraft with some other stiff-necked horse lord. It's bad enough we've this new King Bard and the Dwarf king too, stirring up orcs and dragons and elves and Valar know what else for us to clean up after."

"I wouldn't want to make more work for you," Thengel said wryly.

"Good man."

The bell announced another visitor to the house and the sinking feeling in Thengel's gut informed him that it was probably Wynflaed.

"Better wait a minute to let her settle in with Idhren before you go," Ecthelion advised, reading Thengel's mind. Wynflaed must have become a daily fixture if Ecthelion had noticed her. "Or you could slip out the back and climb the garden wall. It wouldn't be the first time."

Thengel rolled his eyes. "I haven't done that in eighteen years."

In the end, he left by the front door. The sentinels, if they noticed anything, might have observed that his pace was a little quicker than usual.


	22. Old Friends and New

On the day of the feast, Morwen dressed in Aranel's room. She wore a new gown beneath one of Aranel's robes. It was deeper than saffron and made of a material so thin that Morwen had mistaken it for a slip, at first. The sheer overdress was studded over in silver flowers that reminded her of the little white cenedril growing in Imloth Melui. Her cousin's wife had to lend her everything else, since a feast had not entered into her plans when she decided to leave Lossarnach. Many of Aranel's things had to be unpacked as well and her trunks lined one wall of her dressing room.

Morwen paced the floor while she waited for Aranel to finish dressing. She felt time passing too slowly around her and her stomach squeezed uneasily. Meeting Steward Turgon was of utmost importance and the closer to the event the more her patience evaporated. She tried to remember what she could about the man, but it had been years since she had seen either the Steward or his son for herself. Her last contact with Lord Turgon had been a lengthy note expressing his sorrow on the passing of her father.

She reviewed what she would do. Explain the facts, such as they were. Then she would trust to his long friendship with Randir.

"Morwen, you're making me nervous. Why don't you find some shoes to wear? They should be in the trunk near the door," Aranel said. She sat in a chair facing the mirror while Dineth arranged her hair. She could see Morwen's profile reflected in the glass.

Morwen stood in front of the trunk and frowned. "Everything will have to be repacked," she said. "I'm sorry I've delayed your trip."

"Don't be. It's given me a few more days to say goodbye to Minas Tirith." She lowered her voice. "I'd never admit it to Adrahil, but I was feeling sort of lonesome not knowing when we would return next."

"Miss Minas Tirith?"

Aranel smiled at Morwen's skeptical expression. "I'm not like Adrahil. He spent his whole life traveling back and forth between Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith. So he feels at home in both cities. But I grew up here and I shall miss Minas Tirith very much once we're gone. Adrahil knows that. It's the reason why he arranged to stay here for our first year. It was a nice thought, but I think we'll both relax once we're in Belfalas."

"But you sound like you don't want to go."

"Oh, I do, especially since Mother has been underfoot so much."

Morwen ducked her head to hide her expression. Adrahil's complaint to her on the day she turned up on their doorstep had not been unfounded, she had discovered. Lady Rían treated the Prince's home as her second and the woman had a tendency to raise hackles wherever she went. Morwen winced, recalling the string of harried shopkeepers they'd left behind in Lady Rían's wake.

"I suppose you'll miss her," Morwen added a little too late.

Aranel laughed dryly as if she could read Morwen's mind on the subject. "It will be a relief not having to mediate between my mother and my husband, but I know that I'll be homesick. Who knows how much?" Aranel frowned, but then rallied. She reached behind her to pat her maid on the arm. "Fortunately, I'll have Dineth with me."

Dineth nodded. "Yes, my lady — and the Prince. You won't have time to feel sorry for yourself between us."

"Perhaps you can come back often." Morwen cast a wondering eye over all the trunks. It wouldn't be a small feat to move the Princess. These few trunks only held Aranel's personal items. The Gwaelin, Adrahil's ship, waited on the Harlond, groaning with all the other trunks that contained wedding gifts and household items. That still didn't include the presents they had received that would stay in the Minas Tirith house. She wouldn't have credited it before, but weddings were a lucrative transaction if Adrahil and Aranel were anything to go by.

No wonder Halmir had thought of it! The thought tasted like bile.

"Maybe. Adrahil's mother is looking forward to my help running the household. There will be so much to do I doubt I could come away often."

"Delegate the tasks so you can travel between Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith as often as you like. I certainly don't do everything myself."

Aranel gave Morwen's reflection in the mirror a penetrating look, as if she knew better. What tales had Adrahil told her?

"I don't intend to, but if I keep disappearing from Dol Amroth people will begin to question my loyalty to Adrahil and my commitment to the fief. I chose this life with my eyes open and now I have to live it."

Morwen tightened the sash on the robe. "But why did you marry Adrahil if it means you'll be unhappy?"

Dineth, who was also watching from the mirror, cringed, laid down the brush, and turned to Morwen to loosen the knot. "You'll wrinkle the dress, my lady," she whispered.

"Oh, sorry," Morwen mumbled.

"Homesickness isn't the same as unhappiness, Morwen. I married Adrahil because I fell in love, and more often than not love means giving a few things up. Your father gave up Minas Tirith, too, didn't he?"

Aranel closed her eyes as Dineth began to apply an oil to her hair that smelled faintly of oranges. Then she twisted Aranel's hair and anchored with combs at the nape of her neck.

Morwen wrinkled her nose. "I hardly think leaving Minas Tirith for Lossarnach counts as a sacrifice."

Aranel smiled knowingly. She gave her hair a quick review and then waved Dineth away. Rising, she stood beside Morwen.

"Here, sit down so Dineth can arrange your hair."

Morwen allowed herself to be led away from the trunk, submitting to Dineth. Her muscles felt tense from prolonged delay, but before she could climb the citadel gate tunnel toward Merethrond, there were necessary steps.

"How do you want it, my lady?" Dineth asked.

Morwen looked to Aranel for help.

"I think a natural look will suit Morwen best. You have a nice wave, Morwen."

"Loose it is," Dineth answered. "And some argon to smooth the flyaways. It'll be a humid in the great hall."

Flyaways. If only Gildis could see her now! Although, she had Gildis to thank that this process was far less painful than it had been at Lossemeren. Aranel had even complimented the fine arch of her eyebrows the day before, which made Morwen nearly hug herself. Poor Gildis.

Aranel took Morwen's place at the trunk. She considered, reached into the controlled chaos within, and pulled out gold slippers.

"My mother will be disappointed you didn't choose the green gown she liked. That's always very popular this time of year. These gold slippers would have gone well with them. But between green and yellow, you chose best. You needed a warm color." She found another pair of delicate white silk. "Here, try these."

Morwen held the white slippers to the fabric around her waist. "Green and yellow are the first colors of spring and the last colors of summer," Morwen mused. "Green grass. Yellow flowers."

"It's a natural combination. But I think…no." She tossed the white pair back in and dug around until she found a silver pair. "Here. These will go well with the silver embroidery on your gown."

Morwen wiggled her toes experimentally in the new slippers, and said, "I couldn't really tell. How did you decide?"

"Practice. It's not my first state function."

"Oh. I've never been to anything but my blossom festival." She winced as Dineth began to comb her hair.

"Did I hurt you, my lady?" Dineth asked.

Morwen gave her an apologetic smile. "No, but I thought you were going to."

Aranel sat in the chair next to the dressing table, surveying Dineth's work. Morwen felt herself relax when no snarls reared their ugly heads. Who knew that having her hair brushed by someone else could feel so nice? She realized that Gildis might have been using the brush to communicate her frustration. Maybe she would send Ioneth to Dol Amroth to learn a few things from Dineth. On second thought, the girl would probably run off with the first fisherman to wink at her.

Morwen felt a pang of longing in her chest. She missed all of them, even silly Ioneth and clumsy Gundor!

"You'll enjoy tonight. We'll make sure of it," Aranel said, mistaking the forlorn expression on Morwen's face. "Adrahil and I will take care of everything. We'll find you dance partners and when you're tired of dancing, there's the banquet. When you're tired of the banquet, there's the gardens – although you didn't here that from me."

"Gardens?" Morwen felt her heart lift. She missed being surrounded by green! "I didn't know there were any in the citadel."

"You can't have a feast hall without gardens to help couples disappear."

Morwen sighed. "I'm really only going for one reason, Aranel, which is—"

"To see Prince Thengel again?" Aranel quipped, winking at Dineth.

Morwen gaped at Aranel, but Dineth snorted softly.

Aranel tapped the vanity counter. "You've kept mum on the subject and I am dying to know what you think of him. He's so rarely in Minas Tirith these days and he only travels wherever Ecthelion tells him to. Nobody ever gets him as a guest. Yet, from what I've gathered via my sources, he stayed at Bar-en-Ferin for at least a week."

"Your sources?" Morwen's fingers closed around the neck of the dressing gown, feeling surrounded by Aranel's spies.

Aranel laughed. "Don't look so prim. I'm teasing."

"Aranel, there's very little to tell you," Morwen told her gravely. "It's not as if I invited him. He didn't mean to…"

"Fine, keep your secrets. I know you only want to see the Steward. Still, it's a celebration. You have to dance and enjoy yourself. I thought, well, you have at least one acquaintance…"

"Tell me about Steward Turgon," Morwen interrupted. "My memory is very dim."

Aranel gave her a look that suggested Morwen was off the hook now, but later there would be a reckoning.

"How to describe the Steward? Hmm." Aranel tapped her lips. "He's a grave man, terse at times. My father would describe him as peppery. He is very learned and his gaze is far-reaching, they say."

Morwen nodded. "I remember my father saying that Ecthelion was a man of action, but that Turgon was a man of thought."

"He is both," said Adrahil, who materialized out of nowhere to lean on the doorframe between his dressing room and Aranel's. "He thinks and therefore others act, which is sort of the same thing."

Aranel swiveled around to smile at her husband, who looked resplendent in silver that looked well with Aranel's lapis gown.

"Are you ready so soon?" Morwen asked.

Adrahil crossed the room to give Aranel a kiss. "I've been ready since dinner."

"All the Prince had to do was change his tunic and make sure his boots were clean," Dineth quipped.

"True. But no one will care what I look like, especially when my wife and cousin are in the room." He turned to Morwen. "Are you pleased with the gown?"

Morwen gently pinched the gauzy fabric between her fingers and watched it spill away like water.

"The only thing I regret," Morwen mused, "is that Halmir's right."

Aranel's expression clouded. "About what?"

Morwen made a sour face. "That yellow suits me."

Aranel waved the thought away. "As if he had anything to do with your complexion."

"I know."

"Think of it as representing the gold banner of Lossarnach," Adrahil said. "And you look beautiful. Aranel told me you would and she is never wrong."

"Not often," Aranel laughed. "At least where dresses are concerned."

Leave it to Adrahil to turn a compliment to Morwen into a compliment to his bride. Morwen didn't mind really. It was better than Halmir's habit of using compliments as backhanded insults. Besides, she had grown to like Aranel very much during the three days she had spent with them so far and it was true that she had excellent taste. The dress fit Morwen like a…well, it fit her. The cut fit her in all the right places and little resembled the styles that were popular when Hirwen was Morwen's age. She hadn't worn a dress that hadn't first belonged to her mother since Valar knows when. They had been taken in and taken up until she turned thirteen and began to surpass her mother in height, in which case Gildis became adept at letting dresses down.

"Yes," she said with a trace of wonder in her voice. "I'm very surprised it came together so quickly. I didn't think it was possible."

Aranel smirked. "Mother and I have connections."

"And the currency of persuasion," Adrahil added dryly.

Aranel tipped her head to the side. "And what currency is that?"

"Coin. What else? Or so says my ledger." He winked. "I think we'll find a few dressmakers in the city who were lately able to enjoy an early retirement thanks to three noble patronesses."

"All for the greater good, I assure you." Aranel gave his arm a squeeze. "We have to look our best for the Steward and his friends, old and new."

Adrahil's eyebrows disappeared nearly into his hairline. "Ah, yes."

Morwen feigned interest in the bottle of argon and orange blossom oil that Dineth had used on her hair. There was an undercurrent to the conversation that Morwen understood perfectly well and yet she wondered how she could have misrepresented the situation of the last few weeks to her cousins to make them speculate as they were doing. After all, despite Aranel's many hints, she had held her tongue about her guest. If she wouldn't tell them anything, how could they assume anything?

…

"Why are you waiting out here?"

Thengel looked up at Wynflaed from where he sat under the one tree in the sorry looking garden in the front of his house. Weeds were winning the land war and some were making headway in the cracked pavers. Shabby. Even the tree looked scruffy. Which ancient founder of this house had chosen a dirty birch shedding catkins all over the place? He'd come to enjoy a few minutes of solitude before the feast and the cooling air, but had found the space less inviting than he realized.

He shrugged. "The garden needs an overhaul."

His sister snorted. "You only noticed now?"

Wynflaed surprised him by sitting down in the empty space next to him. She had dressed in the traditional white of the women of the House of Eorl and something in her manner seemed to dare him to take exception to it.

"I'm a busy man, believe it or not." Then he said, "You look nice."

"Hmph."

The front doors opened and Oswin trundled down the front steps in a blaze of green and gold pomp with Eriston in tow. The servant gave Thengel a resigned look. His uncle's beard looked trimmed and less flyaway and his braids were freshly set. Eriston had worked something of a miracle on Oswin. It was probably time to discuss giving the poor man a bump in his wages.

Unfortunately, the small detail of his uncle's matching tunic made Thengel grimace. He understood what they were doing now, but didn't find the show of solidarity necessary.

Eriston had foisted Thengel into a mysterious green tunic with gold knotwork on the sleeves, collar and hem, which he had never laid eyes on before. He suspected Oswin and Wynflaed had something to do with its appearance in his wardrobe, but now he knew for sure. He preferred to wear the customary black and silver of the Tower of Guard for these functions, but that outfit was nowhere to be found. He knew all too well that Wynflaed had managed to press Eriston into service, irresistible force that she was.

"Why am I being rolled out of the house at this hour? I was told this béorscipe didn't start till long after sundown."

Thengel got up and brushed off whatever catkins might have joined him. "The sun is almost spent, Uncle, and I promised Ecthelion to come as early as possible."

Wynflaed tossed her loose hair over her shoulder and seemed to tense for battle as she rose. "Forward, then."

When Thengel offered her his arm, she eyed it warily.

"What?" she asked, "is something wrong with your sleeve?"

"It's considered courteous in Gondor to offer a lady one's arm," he answered with exaggerated patience.

Wynflaed rolled her eyes. "And shame myself in front of the warriors? No."

Thengel lowered his arm. "Suit yourself."

Oswin cleared his throat causing Wynflaed to pull a face. As they passed through his gate, he could see some inner windmill slowly churning in her mind. Surreptisiously she slipped her arm through his.

"Don't tell me you just sprained your ankle," he muttered.

"If these women think that hobbling along with a perfectly healthy woman on your arm is some mark of virtue, then we can't afford to have you lose face. They need to think you're agreeable."

"Despite the truth, you mean?"

She shrugged.

They didn't speak as they were drawn into the tide of people wending their way toward the seventh circle. At the citadel gate, the guards recognized Thengel and held back the other pedestrians so they could pass through the tunnel with better ease.

Thengel led Wynflaed and Oswin through the tunnel that ended at the Court of the Fountain. As they neared the fountain, Thengel saw that someone had festooned the crippled tree with silver ribbon to mask the gloom and decay. Candles floated on little silver boats in the fountain, their light catching on the ribbons and casting a soft shimmer like little stars over the water. Thengel stopped to observe it.

Oswin shook his head. "There's a light in the house, but no master."

"No," Thengel agreed, "but servants still faithfully care for house."

Wynflaed looked askance at her brother and uncle. "All I see is a fancy trough. Let's go."

Beyond the tree, the white spike of stone that formed the Tower of Ecthelion loomed over them. Revelers who had not merited an invitation to the feast in Merethrond crowded the courtyard and looked like so many colorful flowers beneath the white trunk of a grand tree. Their laughter echoed against the high battlements and buildings of the seventh circle, enjoying the warm spring evening and the free eatables and music provided to the public by the Steward whenever there was a closed function. Children cut across Thengel's path flailing streamers he recognized from Tegilbor's shop.

The king's house lay beyond the Tower. Thengel led them to the right, following in the wake of the Steward's guests. The doors of Merethrond were opened wide and the strength of many lights glowed from within, pooling out into the courtyard. Servants waited at the door to check names against a long list of guests. When they arrived at the foot of the stairs leading down into the great hall, they didn't wait for the herald to appear to announce them. Their bright hair and pale complexions did that for them.

It looked like all of Minas Tirith had also promised Ecthelion to arrive early. With some effort, Thengel found him standing apart with the deputies from Esgaroth, who looked coldly on the bustle of servants making last minute alterations under the direction of Lady Rían. His companions looked like men who had resigned themselves to the constant awe-inducing splendor of Gondor's first city. Thengel had fellow feeling for them. He could remember clearly his own reaction to the opulence before him, without one of Teitharion's paintings to remind him. Only the Dwarf seemed immune to amazement, perhaps owing to his residence in the courts of the Lonely Mountain and the cultural memory of Moria.

Ecthelion looked relieved to see him.

"Friends, here at last is Prince Thengel. Ah, Marshal Oswin is known to you, but I do not think you have yet met Thengel's delightful sister, Lady Wynflaed, a shieldmaiden of the Mark of Rohan."

Delightful?

They bowed. Thengel shook hands with a grizzled man maybe twenty years older than himself. He was Thengel's own height, which meant that Ecthelion towered over both of them. And his hair had more or less tipped the balance on the side of gray, while his beard was curiously deep rusty color with only a few shots of gray near his ears.

"Lady Wynflaed, this is Egil," Ecthelion said. "And this young man is his nephew Rurik. "

Rurik had black hair and the same rusty-red beard, but looked about the same age as Thengel. Both men had been members of the last defense of Lake-town under Bard. Now they served as the king's lieutenants while the newly restored kingdom of Esgaroth found its legs.

"And this is Frár, deputy to Dain, King Under the Mountain."

The Dwarf bowed a second time. "At your service, my lady."

Wynflaed surveyed them all with unveiled interest. It was no secret that she felt cheated out of a battle and that the petty skirmishes with orcs and Dunlendings on their borders had grown tiresome. Her sword arm ached for better sport. She regarded Frár.

"Were you with Oakenshield's party?" she asked.

Frár's eyes kindled. "No, madam. I hail from the Iron Hills and have served King Dain all my life."

"Do you find Minas Tirith to your liking?"

Frár's beard twitched. "Interesting masonry. I would have made a few choices differently — as a professional, you understand."

"Then is the city not what you expected?" Ecthelion asked, piqued.

"My people do not travel so far south in these days of doubt, but the rumor of the craftsmanship of the Númenóreans has long been held in memory. By and large, it exceeds the stories."

That sounded generous. Thengel had nothing to say about the masonry that would interest a Dwarf, much less himself. He let his attention wander over the hall.

"Where is Idhren?" he murmured to Ecthelion.

"Damned if I know," he groused. "By the way, make sure you save her a dance, will you? She's always happier when you're around."

Thengel grunted. "Only because when I'm around it usually means you're around too."

"Well she's in a foul mood tonight and I only made it worse. She and Belehir's wife are at each other's throats like two cats in an alley. I told her if she didn't like Lady Rían's choices, she ought to have planned this thing herself and save me the earful I'm going to get from Lord Belehir."

"Yes, he did say that," Idhren drawled from somewhere behind them.

They turned on their heels like guilty children, but Idhren had already dismissed them. Smiling beguilingly to the guests of honor, they stood stupefied in her presence. Even Oswin looked bemused. Her hair was arranged in a dark crown around her head, adorned with combs of gold flowers. She wore a gown of deceptively meek lavender that pooled and folded around her like a waterfall.

"Rurik, I'm so pleased to see that you've met Lady Wynflaed," she said, holding out a hand to each of them.

Rurik swallowed hard. "Yes, Lady Idhren?"

"Wynflaed, do you..eh…what's it called again, Rurik? That charming dance you told me about?"

"Jigging, my lady," he said gravely.

"Jigging. Yes." Idhren's eyes sparkled with humor. "I've arranged for the dancing to open with one of yours from back home - at least, it's as close as I could get according to your description. The players seem to know what to do. Lady Rían's program had to be entirely rearranged, but that is neither here nor there. Wynflaed, my love, I'm sure Rurik couldn't ask for a more charming partner to…jig with."

Rurik bowed at the waist. Thengel had the unnerving experience of seeing his sister, though slab-faced and inscrutable, blush. Whatever tune Idhren had decided to play, these people were going to dance to it, quite literally.

"Now, gentlemen, I hope you won't mind if I steal Prince Thengel away."

Ecthelion's eyes rounded up to the ceiling. "You know very well they won't," he muttered.

Idhren gave him an arch smile, then led Thengel away to the foot of the stairs where they were hidden in the crowd.

"Now, darling, I've done my best by you and found out the names of some likely partners ahead of time. Let me do the negotiating."

Thengel frowned. "Oh?"

"Yes. My altruism ends at one point," she warned. "You and I are to open the dance."

"Shouldn't that honor belong to one of Turgon's guests?" Or, I don't know, Ecthelion, he thought.

Idhren pretended to smooth away a loose strand of hair. "Egil or Frár, you mean?"

"I do."

"No, dear. Frár has asked to be excluded from the pleasure of dancing, the reason being rather obvious. As for Egil, I've saved that honor for Lady Rían." Her eyes narrowed. "She could use a jig."

"You can't let her have all the honors."

"I can if it means having my way elsewhere," Idhren reflected. Then she pressed a finger into Thengel's chest. "And don't you interfere."

He held his hands up. "I won't. You know me. I'm perfectly satisfied to be led by you."

She smiled. "Good."

Then he said, "What about Ecthelion?"

Her smile remained fixed, but it began to stale. "He's keeping Frár company since his father won't be here tonight."

"No? What's the matter with Turgon?"

"Oh, gout? Rheumatism? Whatever it is that ails old men. I think he just isn't in the mood for people and since he's the Steward, who's going to make him?"

"So he's up in his tower all by himself?"

"Quite comfortable, but not by himself."

"Oh?"

"If he isn't going to be a good host here, we've sent Denethor to keep him company. It felt like the right sort of penance. A grumpy old man and his moody grandson." Idhren laughed. "You know, that was Ecthelion's idea. He can be brilliant in more than military matters when he exerts himself."

"I think you should dance with him, Idhren."

Idhren smiled and greeted a familiar couple. She murmured, "I will once I've made him properly jealous."

He gave her a stern look. "Jealous?"

"Shh. It's his punishment for running off to Ithilien so soon."

Thengel winced. "He told you that, did he?"

"As if I couldn't tell," she huffed, frowning for the first time. "And shame on you for letting him keep it a secret. You know, I wish someone would teach him how to delegate - or else shoot him in the knee. Then at least I'd have him home for more than two months together. Denethor needs his father to show him how to grow up."

"Have you told Ecthelion that?" he asked gently.

"More than once. Next I shall threaten to send the boy to Ithilien with him." She grabbed Thengel's arm. "Oh lord, here comes Rían. She's going to start barking about the changes I made to the music. Let's take our places on the floor before she catches us."

…

Morwen's first impression of the great hall of Merethrond was of the inside of a soup tureen. The humid air from the crush of people below made her dress stick to her back while they waited at the top of the stairs. It was odd to gather everyone inside, she thought. She was more used to dancing out of doors in the unrestricted air with nothing more than the valley walls hemming them in.

Adrahil and Aranel had gotten ahead of her in the press. She had to duck around a family of many daughters to take her place behind them on the landing. Then an unfamiliar voice echoed her name from the staircase into the cavernous space and a sudden self-consciousness possessed her.

Most of the eyes that turned their way were attracted by the names of the Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth rather than by the obscure young woman in their charge. But the exposure to so many unknown people at once felt new to Morwen and she stood, legs paralyzed, on the top step. She kneaded her fingers together without thinking.

…

"Lord Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, Lady Aranel, Princess of Dol Amroth. Lady Morwen of Lossarnach."

Thengel broke Idhren's grip and swiveled around toward the staircase as those names seemed to strike him in the chest. That she would be here tonight had not entered his mind. But there Morwen stood, tall and fair and gray-eyed. Fresh and slim like a lily from the south.

Something seemed wrong, though. She wasn't sailing down the steps with the self-possession of the lady of Imloth Melui that he had come to know, but seemed to shrink back. He recognized the symptom of distress from Lossemeren.

"Oh, I thought the Prince and Princess were on their way to Dol Amroth," he heard Idhren say. "Very handsome couple, though her mother is such a pain. Look."

But he only saw Morwen. He held his breath for her, hating so many people seeing her discomfited.

Unclasp your hands, he willed.

And then, Béma, she did!

Thengel breathed. He stepped toward her, feeling gratified, like something had opened in his chest to take her in. When he first saw her in Bar-en-Ferin, he hadn't known about the flesh and blood woman beneath the imperious plate she wore. He could tell now, see the steps in the way she donned her armor. Shoulders back, arms loose by her side, the upward tilt of her chin, eyes sharp. Centered, she dared others to flow around her the way a stream is parted by a solid rock. She descended into the fray and he moved to meet her.

Idhren's hand materialized on his arm, holding him like an anchor. "Come along. The guests will stampede if the dancing doesn't begin soon."

"Can't it wait a moment?"

Hurt flashed through Idhren's eyes but disappeared in an instant. She looked around but didn't see anyone of interest. "Why, am I interrupting a tryst?" she asked dryly.

"No," he grumbled.

"Then come. You did say you were satisfied to be led by me."

Unable to break his promise to his friend, he allowed her to lead him away. He looked back, but quickly lost sight of Morwen in the crowd gathering around the Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth.

…

The onlooking guests scattered parted like startled geese around a collie as Lady Rían charged toward her daughter. Morwen braced herself as soon as the older woman opened to mouth.

"You're here at last!"

Aranel kissed her mother's flushed cheek. "We're earlier than usual, Mother. Where's Father?"

"Skulking somewhere, leaving me to defend myself against treacherous women," Lady Rían sniffed. "Aranel, I'm ruined. Completely ruined."

"Ruined, Mother?"

"Lord Turgon decided to stay home tonight. Pains in his legs, he says. I've never been more slighted in my life."

"Lord Turgon isn't here?" Morwen asked, crestfallen.

"No, child," Lady Rían replied, looking down her nose at Morwen, whom she had forgotten about.

Another day wasted with no progress and no plan. What was she doing in Minas Tirith? The back of her eyes prickled as frustration welled up from within. She couldn't afford to waste time, not when her instincts told her that Halmir would use her absence to create mischief. Leaving home had been a poor move and she tasted bitter regret on her tongue.

Oblivious to the distress she dished out, Lady Rían droned on. "After all the effort I've put in to this evening when his daughter-in-law couldn't be bothered, I expected better treatment. A little gratitude goes a long way."

"No one will blame you for Steward Turgon's absence, Mother" Morwen heard Aranel murmur Both of her cousins were giving her worried glances.

"If only that were all. Now Lady Idhren has decided to open the dance with Prince Thengel and leave all the dirty work to me." Lady Rían jerked her shoulders like a turkey ruffling its feathers. "I have the dubious honor of opening the dance with that scruffy old Egil from Lake-town. I was hoping to fob him off on Lady Idhren. And then she changed the music! I swear—

"Mother, please remember where you are."

Lady Rían harrumphed. "I don't see why I should have suffer being dragged around the room like a bolster simply because my husband is the Keeper of the Keys."

Morwen's heart skipped a beat. Prince Thengel. Her eyes instinctively swept the room for him, but with the crowd of recently arriving guests bottling up at the foot of the stairs to observe the fuss, she couldn't find him. Without thinking, Morwen began to pleat her skirt between her fingers.

Lady Rían noticed the abuse and pursed her lips. "Ah, that's the dress you decided on for her, Aranel? I thought you were considering the green one?"

Morwen's attention snapped back to Lady Rían. "I chose this, actually."

"Oh?" she sniffed. "Well. Good for you for carrying it off. I always look like a corpse in yellow. Dreadful thing."

"You could hardly blame that on the color," Morwen observed quietly.

Beside her, Adrahil coughed. "Er, we better present ourselves to Lord Ecthelion and his guests."

Lady Rían drew herself up to her full but insubstantial height, like a martyr greeting the flames. "Yes, it is time to do my duty in the name of the White Tree and fetch that Egil fellow. If tonight's entertainment doesn't result in diplomatic success with Esgaroth, it won't be my fault."

…

The musicians were tuning their instruments, but the guests had taken their cue from Lady Idhren and were filling the remaining corners of the open floor. Thengel waited with Idhren at the top of the floor when a curious sight caused him to question his senses.

"So, that's Rurik leading my sister to the dance," Thengel observed. "He really managed it."

"Why, I think it is," Idhren replied airily.

"How on earth did you do it?"

"I might have hinted to Rurik beforehand and I might have hinted to Wynflaed that it would be worth her while if she kept out of my way tonight."

Thengel tried to catch Wynflaed's eye, but his sister stubbornly stared at Rurik's hairline.

"Why would you inflict that on the king's deputies?" he asked. "I thought they were on a peaceful mission."

Idhren gently swatted his arm. "Hush. You're not very gallant toward Wynflaed. Anyway, I had an inkling, that's all. Did you know that Ecthelion and she have become bosom friends?"

"Bosom friends?"

She waved her hand vaguely in the air. "Or whatever you want to call it. I couldn't get him to leave the war room these days even if I stood on a table without any clothes on. He visits her at the sparing grounds."

"Are you…"

"I didn't believe it at first," she went on, "I sent Niniel down after them and sure enough, they were hacking away at each other with real swords! The arms master said they refused the wooden practice ones. And she doesn't relent. Clearly nobody told her you aren't supposed to dice up the future Steward."

"Are you jealous that he's spending time with her?"

She snorted, surprising him. "Jealous? She isn't sleeping with him, Thengel. If she wants to whack him with a sword, she has my blessing. It saves me a lot of trouble. She cut him pretty badly on the arm once when you were in Lossarnach. You know he was so thrilled he came home and paid my embroidery a compliment. He's never noticed before." She continued, "that's when it occurred to me - if she hit it off with Ecthelion, she won't care a jot for most of the men here. They're too polished. But Rurik is one of those crusty wilderland types. And I was right. It should keep her distracted all night so you won't have any trouble with her."

Thengel hugged her. "Idhren, you're an angel."

"I know."

"I never knew you were a consummate strategist."

She looked smug. "I married the Steward's only son, didn't I?"

"But that was love."

The musicians struck the first notes of the song Idhren had chosen for Rurik. She turned Thengel to face her and placed her hand in his.

"Oh, child," she sighed. "Love needs a little push sometimes. Now jig."

…

While Aranel charmed Egil and smoothed her mother's ruffled feathers in an attempt to edge them toward the dance, Lord Ecthelion bowed over Morwen's hand. She tried not to stare at the marvelous scar over his eye, which made him look more than a little dangerous.

Which, she realized, as the captain of the Tower of Guard, he was. And this was Prince Thengel's best friend.

"So," he said, "you're the woman who harbored Prince Thengel. No wonder he took his time returning home."

Morwen felt heat rising along her throat. "I was told his uncle had more to do with that," she said gravely.

The captain grinned. "You know something about that, do you? Pity you just missed Marshal Oswin. He and Frár have gone to keep my father company in the Tower."

"Frár is the Dwarf delegate from the Lonely Mountain," Adrahil added. "We're sorry we won't have the pleasure of meeting Steward Turgon again, Captain. He and Morwen's father were good friends."

Lord Ecthelion bowed his head. "So they were."

Aranel joined them after seeing her mother off. "Captain, there is some bad blood between our families tonight. Perhaps you and I can heal the breach?" She held out her hand.

"With pleasure, Princess, seeing as my remaining charges are in good hands. Excuse me, Lady Morwen."

With a bow, Ecthelion followed Aranel onto the dance floor.

Adrahil and Morwen watched them go with similar looks of bemused admiration. Morwen wondered how a person raised by Lady Rían could learn to take a situation in hand with such elegance.

"Well, everyone's been organized except for us." Adrahil smiled down at her. "Look, I want you to forget what's going on at home and enjoy yourself. Aranel wants so badly for you to have a good time. She's going to worry about you now that Turgon hasn't come. With her recent illness, I'd hate for her evening to be spoiled."

"Well, for Aranel's sake, then," she agreed with only a hint of a crisp edge in her tone.

"Yes, for Aranel's sake." Then he said. "Now we'd better find you a partner. Do you know anyone here besides Prince Thengel?"

"I imagine some of Father's old friends are around." She wasn't certain if any of them could still walk without a prop, though.

Adrahil pulled a face. "That won't do. Let's muck around till I find one of my friends. It'll be easier once we get a few introductions out of the way."

Morwen laughed. "Why don't you just write up a letter of introduction for me to pass around?"

He tried to imitate one of Prince Angelimir's stern expressions. "Introductions are necessary formality, Morwen. And if we don't have formalities, what do we have?"

"Natural behavior?"

Adrahil shook his head with mock severity. "That would never do." Then his face lightened up. "Ah, just the fish we need. Bait the hook, Morwen."

"What are you talking about?"

"Ugh. Smile, for star's sake."

"Oh."

A handsome man in a deep red tunic approached them. His hair cascaded down his back in heavy curls that reminded her of Halmir, until she squashed the comparison - for Aranel's sake. He shook hands with Adrahil.

"Hullo, I didn't know you were still in Minas Tirith. Didn't I hear you were off to Dol Amroth?"

"We were delayed. By happy chance, my cousin has come to us." Adrahil nudged Morwen forward.

The man smiled at Morwen politely and his dark eyes caught her attention. "Would you do me the honor of introducing me?"

Adrahil inclined his head. "Morwen, this is Lord Daeron, kinsman to Lord Drambor of Lebennin. Daeron, Lady Morwen of Lossarnach."

"Lossarnach! I call that providential. You and I are nearly neighbors." Daeron reached for her hand and bowed over it. "I can see which fief keeps the most beautiful flowers for itself."

Morwen cringed at the overly honeyed expression, but Adrahil looked pleased at a job well done. She could read his mind and knew what he had planned. The musicians were playing a lively tune and dancers swirled around the floor. She thought she caught a glimpse of gold hair. Her heart leapt again, which only sent a responding thrill of annoyance through her. Her feelings were hurt and she needed to remember that!

"If it wouldn't displease you, my lady, would you honor me with a dance?"

Morwen blinked stupidly, as her attention returned closer to home. That was what she disliked about Minas Tirith. This young man knew very well that she had no polite way to refuse whether she liked it or not without offending her hosts and disappointing Adrahil.

"Thank you, Lord Daeron. I will."

Adrahil beamed. "Splendid. You two have a lot in common. Daeron here's an enthusiast for poetry." He laughed at a joke only he understood.

Morwen gave Adrahil an alarmed look. What was she supposed to do with that? Satisfied that he had done his duty, Adrahil disappeared to find a chair where he could sit with a glass of wine and admire his wife from afar.

"Your cousin misrepresents me," Lord Daeron told her with a self-effacing expression. "I am not very enthusiastic about poetry in general, but I do know what I like." His smile made her wonder if he was still talking about poetry. "Here, let's step closer to the dance and see if we can't jump in."

She allowed him to lead her through the onlookers until they were at the edge of the floor. The lively current of the dance swept Prince Thengel right in front of her. In his arms he held a tall, elegant woman. Morwen only saw her profile. Her eyes met his for a brief but laden moment, and then he was gone, lost in the sea of bodies.

Blue eyes, she thought. Why had she never noticed how clear they were before? Morwen must have gripped Daeron's hand quite hard for he winced.

"Are you well, Lady Morwen?"

She took a deep breath. "Oh, yes. I just saw someone that I knew in Lossarnach."

"Ah," said Daeron slowly, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of this so-called person, "Which part of that fief do you call home?"

"I live in Imloth Melui," she said dully.

His eyes brightened. "What a charming place. Fruit country, isn't it?"

She looked at Lord Daeron with real interest for the first time. "Do you know the valley?"

"Not personally, but Imloth Melui has a reputation for the most wholesome fruit and herbs available, not to mention it's roses. I have friends who swear by the stalls selling fruit from Bar-en-Ferin."

Morwen felt herself glowing with the unexpected praise. "That is my planation."

"Is it? Happy coincidence we should meet." He touched her elbow. "Oh, I think I see an opening for us. Shall we?"

She gave him her best smile and let him lead her into the dance.

…

The song ended and the dancers rippled toward the outer edges of the floor. The energetic song had made conversation difficult, but as soon as it ended, Lord Daeron led he by the elbow and began to talk.

"Lady Morwen, would you tell me more about yourself. I know you live in Imloth Melui and that you prefer Hyarnustar Gold to Plowman's Pippin. And I know that you are related to Prince Adrahil but you hail from the south. How is that?"

"My father, Randir, was born in Belfalas. Prince Angelimir was his second cousin."

Daeron gazed at her with amazement. "Not the Lord Randir who served Túrin II and Turgon?" He had a far-off look in his eyes. "'Lady of Waters, / Your nets weave a bed for me / Ere the bitter wave.'"

Morwen's face lit up. "The Death poem of Tar-Miriel. That was my favorite of his translations," she cried. "He nearly didn't include it in the anthology because its provenance couldn't be proved."

"I also enjoyed Tar-Amandil's. 'My heart will set now / Beyond western shores. Behold —'"

"'A far green country,'" she finished. "I must have heard the poems a million times while my father worked on them."

"I tore through the Death Poems. Perhaps they're morbid, but you can't find a better example of Númenórean spirit than in that small volume. It's all waves and gulls and sea-longing."

Morwen felt herself warming to Lord Daeron even more. "I'm so pleased to hear that my father's hard work is valued by more than Prince Angelimir."

He gently squeezed her arm. "But of course. Lord Randir was invaluable Steward Turgon by all accounts." He bowed his head. "I am something of a scholar myself – or at least I try to be," he demurred.

"Are you? And what do you study?" She tipped her head to the side, trying to puzzle him out. "You said you weren't enthusiastic about poetry."

"No," he agreed, "Your father's work aside, I prefer architecture."

"Oh?"

"I have long made a study of the older houses in Minas Tirith. We don't have the same skill that our forbearers have, but it is possible to replicate them stylistically on a small scale. Say, lodges." He laughed to himself. "I've been pestering Prince Adrahil to allow me to make a study of the palace in Dol Amroth. It's of an older period, and not entirely Númenórean in design, but it's possible to trace the development over time - even Orthanc would make an interesting study, if I could travel so far. Unfortunately I have to look a little closer to home."

"And what do you plan to do with this knowledge?"

His answer was lost to her as the players finished taking their last gulps from the wine glasses hidden beneath their chairs before striking up another air. It was like one of Lossarnach's country dances, only everyone stood very straight and moved in time – and with fewer collisions. She watched the line go down twice and thought she had it figured out.

"I recognize this. It's similar to one we have in Lossarnach, only the fiddler isn't drunk tonight. Not yet, anyway." She laughed. "We call it bobbing for apples. It's a circle dance and then everyone ducks under each other's arms and out other side."

Daeron smiled. "We have one like that in Lamedon too. Perhaps you would honor me with another round?"

"You're a brave man."

"Nonsense. You're a wonderful dancer," he said. "It's a pleasure."

Morwen shook her head, but smiled. "I think you're very kind but not terribly truthful. I don't get much practice in Imloth Melui and well I know it. I have trodden on your toes at least three times."

He laughed. "But you're light on your feet so I barely noticed."

"Small mercies," she said, allowing herself to be swept away.

…

Morwen must have miscounted the steps at the end of the song. She was sure she was right, but when she completed the turn, her partner had disappeared. Instead of curtseying to Daeron, Prince Thengel stood in his place. Her hand was in his before she could think and he bowed over it. Lord Daeron appeared behind him, looking as nonplussed as she felt.

The prince straightened, blocking Daeron from view again.

"Lady Morwen, I heard you were in town."

"Prince Thengel, I…"

She meant to give him a set down for his rudeness to Lord Daeron, but it never made it past her lips. Prince Thengel's hand felt warm around hers and familiar. It looked like Lord Daeron was out a dance partner, though Morwen thought that was for the best. Too much attention, even from someone as charming as Daeron, would bring unwanted speculation. Although she wasn't managing to avoid that with Prince Thengel. Her hand was still in his.

Thoughts of Lord Daeron skittered away like blossoms in the wind. She needed to say something to the prince, but she couldn't remember what. If he would look away for a moment instead of distracting her with his eyes, then she could think! Instead they seemed to envelop her. He seemed so pleased to see her, which was strange because…because…

It came back to her, then.

"Hello, Prince Thengel," she said. "Happy birthday."


	23. The Hurdle

Prince Thengel dropped her hand.

"Thank you," he said grimly.

Morwen had the impression that he felt slightly less pleased to see her now than he had a few seconds ago.

"My birthday passed a few days ago," he said, gazing at some point over her head. "How did you hear about it?"

"Guthere told me. He had some very interesting things to say about you, in fact."

"Hm."

His eyes narrowed as if assessing for damage, which gave him a stern aspect. Couples brushing past them on their way off the dance floor cast curious glances their way. This reminded Morwen that they were standing in a very public place. While most of the people here might not recognize Morwen of Lossarnach, not so with Prince Thengel. She wondered if anyone else noticed the abrupt manner of their reunion?

Lord Daeron had crept away, but Morwen couldn't see where. She regretted he hadn't put up any kind of objection to Prince Thengel cutting in. They must not raise sturdy fellows in Lebennin, she reflected.

Prince Thengel also noticed the crowd parting around them and the eyes turned in their direction. He turned so that his back faced the onlookers. Morwen felt his fingers on her elbow.

"It's hot in here. Why don't we find something to drink near the windows? Then we can talk."

Like Lord Daeron, she didn't raise any objections, so he led her toward the banqueting room. They entered through an open archway into a room swarming with activity. Those disinclined to dance were either loading their plates or already seated and filling themselves on wine and the best delicacies available in Minas Tirith. The sideboards bowed under the weight of the platters of meat, fine white breads, towers of fruit (hothouse fare this time of year, no doubt), and sweets. Each platter seemed to flow into the others so that she could barely distinguish one dish from the other.

Morwen gaped at the opulence. Her Lossemeren spread paled in comparison and she had always taken so much pride in her family's hospitality. For a moment she felt mortified. And yet, she reflected, no one ever left her home hungry and nothing went to waste. She doubted that the latter would be the case tonight.

"What is it?" he asked. "Are you hungry?"

Morwen shook her head. "I would need an army of Hareths to prepare all this," she said. "One is enough for my household. Although Guthere has shown a surprising knack for cookery."

Prince Thengel found a passing servant handing out glasses of wine and snagged two of them. They moved toward one of the open floor-length windows letting in the cooling evening air. Morwen took a sip of her wine, but put it down. It reminded her of the wine they shared at Lossemeren.

"So Guthere's found his way to the kitchen? Typical. How's he getting on?" Prince Thengel asked, using the formal tone she hadn't heard since he first arrived at Bar-en-Ferin.

"He's certainly progressing," was all she would tell him about just how well Guthere got on. After all, should she tell him about Hareth or let Guthere take care of his own affairs?

"Ready to come home?"

"Em," Morwen mumbled, looking away, "I don't think he would say so."

"I don't blame him," he said, then he took a rather long sip of wine. "I'd rather be in Lossarnach just now."

His words plucked at her like a child abusing a harp string. "Are you in need of another distraction, then?" she said sharply.

Two women standing nearby glanced over. Morwen caught one of them and something in her expression must have acted as a warning. The woman towed her friend to the other side of the room.

Thengel lowered his glass. "Pardon?"

Morwen felt she had wasted her bravado on the eavesdropping women. She looked down and found it was far harder to speak plainly than she thought it would be now that the moment had come. But she needed to address her concerns.

"Don't be angry with Guthere, Prince Thengel," she said with a low but firm voice, so that no one else would benefit from overhearing her. "He accidentally told me that you came to Lossarnach out of convenience to get away from your uncle and his plans for your welfare."

Something glinted in Prince Thengel's eyes, but it disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. But the expression didn't disappear quickly enough to escape her notice. Morwen braced herself.

"My welfare?" he said coolly. "What does Guthere know about that?"

"That's for you to judge," she replied. "But I must say that I take a dim view of someone who would pretend to grieve with a family so that he can avoid unpleasant business at home."

Thengel fell silent for a long moment while her words sunk in. The breeze coming in from the window teased Morwen's hair like cool fingers and billowed her skirts around her ankles. She focused on the sensation while he gathered himself for a reply.

"Hardang was my friend," he said reprovingly. "You think that because the timing worked out in my favor that I was pretending?"

"I don't want to think that at all, yet you didn't exactly dash off to Arnach."

He drew a line on the floor with the tip of his boot. "No," he said slowly. "In hindsight, I should have."

She couldn't tell if hearing him admit it made her angrier or not. Irrationally, she wanted him to deny it and to supply an acceptable excuse. She didn't want to think of him as a man who could behave dishonorably toward his friends. That what her cousins were for, after all.

"Then why didn't you?"

He looked up at her. "Believe me, I've regretted not riding straight to Arnach. We had nothing but trouble. First Teitherion and his goats, losing the horses, then Guthere." He exhaled in frustration. "At first we didn't know if Guthere would make it past the operation. Then you invited me to stay for the festival while Guthere mended. Halmir and Hundor were coming anyway." He looked at her strangely. "I said I regretted not riding straight to Arnach, but truthfully, it wasn't a hard choice to stay in Imloth Melui."

Morwen remembered that she had indeed invited him and used the pretext of her cousins' arrival to encourage him to accept it. Her righteous anger ebbed. Besides, would Ferneth have accepted Thengel as her guest without Halmir and Hundor at home? Ferneth wouldn't even see them.

"It has been a long time since I've stayed anywhere that filled me with such contentment," he continued. "I enjoyed our conversations."

Morwen stared. "You did?"

"Didn't you?"

"Of course! But I wasn't pretending."

He frowned. "Neither was I. Why would you think that?"

Morwen crossed her arms, then decided it made her feel like an angry fishwife, so she let them fall by her side. "I suppose you would find anything more pleasant than what awaited you here." At least, according to Guthere.

Prince Thengel eyes strained upward at the gilded leaves molded into the vaulted ceiling. "For Valar's sake, yes, but that doesn't mean it wasn't genuine."

Morwen decided she wanted her wine after all. She hadn't desired to quarrel with Prince Thengel in the middle of Merethrond, yet she couldn't bring herself to pretend nothing was wrong until a more appropriate moment presented itself. Still, it didn't feel satisfying. Now she just felt confused.

"Listen," he said. "After the festival it became apparent that I needed to return to Minas Tirith. I am selfish, Lady Morwen, and I have left many important things undone, including paying my respects to Ferneth. As for the rest, my uncle is here to help me remedy that."

A chill ran through Morwen. She'd felt so irritated with him for using her family that she'd forgotten the reason behind it.

"Are you unwell?" he asked, his brow darkening with concern. "You look a little pale."

"I valued Hardang, Lady Morwen. I should have shown it in a more honorable way."

Morwen looked at him in surprise. She didn't know what she had expected from the confrontation, but she realized now it hadn't been a confession. She had grown too used to treating with Halmir who was never wrong and refused to be called out.

"I'm sorry," he added.

Something warmed in her chest. If his admission gave her pain, his apology acted as a balm. It was exactly what she needed to hear. No challenge remained in his eyes. They looked soft and expectant. Her instincts told her to trust what she saw.

"Thank you," she said, giving him a natural smile.

His brows furrowed. "What for?"

"For admitting you were wrong." Valar knew if a few other men in her family would do the same then her life would feel a lot smoother right now.

"Then you forgive me?"

"It was a careless way to behave," she said plainly, "but I don't think you meant any harm."

The skin around his eyes creased as he gave her an answering smile. "I hope not."

…

While they were talking, the music started again in the next room. Morwen could see through the open arch that the couples were regrouping on the floor. Some of the diners abandoned their half finished plates to wander toward the music.

"You and I never danced at Lossemeren, Lady Morwen."

"No, I was a little busy at the time," she said crisply, not thanking him for reminding her of that moment.

He drained the rest of his drink, then said, "I never asked if you spilled that wine on purpose?"

"Did you give Halmir a wetting on purpose?"

Thengel grinned, then his smiled faded. "It's a shame you weren't able to enjoy the festival the way you should have. How are you enjoying this evening so far? Better?"

"It's improving," she began, but then decided to poke at him once more. "Though I seem to have misplaced my dance partner."

Prince Thengel stared at the bottom of his empty wine glass. "Hm. Who was he?"

"Lord Daeron of Lamedon. Do you know him?"

Prince Thengel shrugged. "Pleasant fellow?"

She smiled, remembering their conversation about her father's poetry. "Yes, I thought so."

"Hm."

They seemed destined for awkward silences. She had promised Adrahil to enjoy the evening, but she was failing dismally. Morwen scraped her brains for something to say to steer the conversation to brighter things, but the harder she tried, the less she could think of. They had managed one hurdle, but now she felt they were coming to another one.

His eyes focused on something in the through the doorway into the hall and she felt his body tense next to hers. He reached for her arm.

Morwen didn't know what to expect from what she saw of the Prince's expression. Maybe Halmir had materialized or a rabid dog? Or Lady Rían? Whatever it was, he looked like a cornered animal.

But it was Adrahil who appeared on the threshold of the dining room. At first her cousin looked worried as if he thought Morwen had disappeared on his watch. When their eyes met, a relieved smile replaced the worry.

"Oh, you've found Prince Thengel. Good evening."

Thengel inclined his head. "Prince Adrahil."

"I saw Daeron wandering around like a lost dog and I wondered — but never mind."

She felt guilt like worms in her stomach. They really hadn't been polite to Lord Daeron. Did he look like a lost dog? She would have to apologize to him when next they met.

While she stewed over her behavior, Prince Thengel's hand on her arm became a matter of scrutiny for Adrahil. They both looked at Adrahil who's concerned eyes traveled between them like a pendulum. He seemed to be compiling information for future processing.

"Listen, Morwen, I have to take Aranel home. The air's too close in here tonight. She's starting to feel unwell again."

Morwen felt the worms of guilt wriggling again. They were here tonight because of her. All of Aranel's anxieties for tonight centered on Morwen's enjoyment and now she was unwell.

"Will she be all right?"

"Yes, yes. We'll go before it turns into an attack. Listen, Lady Rían has agreed to look after you, if you wish to stay for supper," he said, misinterpreting their reason for being in the dining room. "Aranel is adamant that this doesn't spoil your evening." He seemed to be measuring the space between the Prince and his cousin while questioning the wisdom of Aranel's determination. "Erm, but if you want to come home now…"

Prince Thengel noticed that too. "Lady Morwen was just filling me in on events since I left my guard in her care," he said stoically. Then his eyes twitched back to the ballroom.

Adrahil's expression smoothed into an impressive blank. "Oh, well, good. I imagine you have a lot to catch up on."

"Yes," Morwen agreed.

Adrahil seemed reluctant to leave. Morwen sensed that he wanted her to come home with them now, but had probably been forced to promise Aranel that he wouldn't suggest any such thing. They stood in a triangle of awkward silence while Adrahil decided what to do with himself.

"Aranel is waiting for you," Morwen pointed out eventually. "And Prince Thengel has just reminding me that we never danced at Lossemeren."

Adrahil blinked. Had she really just dismissed him? Morwen wondered where the gumption had come from. She was about to apologize, but Adrahil seemed to have finally made up his mind.

"Yes, Aranel is waiting – and Prince Thengel, it seems, is waiting too. Very well. But, listen, Morwen, don't wander too far from Lady Rían," he said. "Good night." He inclined his head to Prince Thengel.

Once Adrahil disappeared into the crowd, Thengel lost his wine glass and murmured, "follow me."

"But they are dancing in the other direction," she told him as he steered her around.

"Exactly."

Morwen looked in the direction that the Prince had been watching. She could see a golden head bobbing through the crowd toward them. But then she lost sight of it as he ushered her out one of the open windows.

…

The terrace behind Merethrond was full of men and women enjoying wine and conversation. Light spilled out from the hall onto the white stone, supplemented here and there by tall, circular braziers formed to look like suns. The couples seemed to avoid the light, leaning into the shadows to whisper to one another.

Silence descended like a brick when Prince Thengel appeared. Nobody recognized Morwen as someone of interest, apparently, for the drone of conversation started all over again in a few seconds once they had looked over the Prince's companion and couldn't place her.

Prince Thengel considered the different directions of the stairs leading down from the terrace into the gardens. Then he looked back into the dining room. She tried to see what he was looking at.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Hm?"

"Whoever you're avoiding? Is it your fiancé?"

"My what?" he cried.

The voices ceased again. Morwen grimaced. They were drawing no small amount of notice from the guests nearest them who found the Prince and this unfamiliar woman more interesting than whatever they had to say to one another.

"Guthere said…"

"Hang Guthere and his loose tongue," he growled. "Wait, what did he say?"

"He said your uncle was bringing you a wife?" Morwen had the feeling, based on his reaction, that Guthere was either very mistaken or very correct.

Prince Thengel reached for the hair at the back of his neck and began to abuse it. "I really will give him another knock on the head," he muttered.

"Guthere won't mind. He likes Bar-en-Ferin. Quite attached, you might say."

Prince Thengel's lips curled sourly. "Lady Morwen, do me a favor and try to forget whatever it is that Guthere's been telling you. He should have kept his mouth shut."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "You mean he's wrong?"

"I mean it's not his place to discuss my affairs," he said impatiently.

"I think he believed he only shared facts that were common knowledge."

"Well, it wouldn't be common knowledge if people had the sense to hold their tongues," he groused.

He had said it louder than he meant to, for now people were openly staring again. Prince Thengel cast a jaundiced eye over the crowd. Several more couples spilled out of the hall behind them, seeking the cooler air and sheltering alcoves, so he offered Morwen his arm.

"Please, come into the garden. We can talk there."

She looked back at the glass doors, ignoring his arm. "What about Lady Rían?"

"What about her?" he asked, puzzled.

Morwen wondered if he selectively deaf. Hadn't he heard Adrahil?

"Lady Rían is supposed to keep an eye on me," she reminded him.

Thengel gave her an arch look. "You are the Lady of Imloth Melui. Do you need her to keep an eye on you?"

Morwen gaped as an invisible barb hit her square in the center of her pride. Something like steel glinted in her eyes. From the satisfied expression on his face, the Prince knew he'd made a hit.

Did she need the likes of Lady Rían to safeguard her character or curtail her movements? Of course not! What had gotten into her? The Prince's challenge made her seem like a meek little mouse.

Fueled by annoyance, she sailed past him to the nearest staircase and began her descent into the shadows, far from Lady Rían's view. Behind the roar of blood in her ears, she heard Prince Thengel's footsteps following. Her objective brain told her that she had allowed him to provoke her into behaving exactly the way he'd meant her to. She decided to consider the implications later after the indignation burned off.

…

Morwen reached the gravel walk at the bottom of the stairs and realized she didn't know which way to go. Three paths disappeared into the dark beneath tall hedges. One couple passed her by and entered the middle way. The path on the far right seemed to follow the line of the terrace and of all the three looked the best lit. While she deliberated, Prince Thengel caught up with her.

"You look annoyed," he observed.

"I feel annoyed."

"Sorry," he said, though she didn't think he looked one jot repentant. "Here, take the left path. There's a quiet corner that way."

They walked under the stars in silence. The breeze cut the heat seeping from the stone all around them. They could hear other couples' voices barely muffled by the tall hedges, but they couldn't see them.

"I had no idea there were gardens behind Merethrond until Aranel told me," she said when she felt she'd been silent long enough.

"You didn't spend much time exploring Minas Tirith when you were growing up?"

"No. Do they let many children wander into the citadel?"

"I guess not. I sometimes take my position in the Steward's house for granted."

"You lived with the Steward?"

"Yes, for a few years." He added lightly, "When Ecthelion married I started to feel like I was getting underfoot."

"I suppose you were." Then she said, "You must know all the secrets of the citadel."

"A few. Didn't your father ever take you around when he visited Turgon?"

"Rarely. I was always either stuck in a fruit stall with my mother or else playing in the garden behind Prince Angelimir's home. My father never took me anywhere with him, because he didn't think I could sit still."

"Was that justified?"

"Well," she drawled. "There's a pond in the gardens of the Houses of Healing. I used to find it quite refreshing, which might have violated the Warden's views of appropriate behavior. The incident left an impression on my father."

"Surely you were very young when that happened."

"Yes. When I was old enough to help in the orchard I only traveled with them to meet our cousins. Then when my mother died I stopped going for a few years. It wasn't a loss to me." A shadow passed over her face. "Although maybe if I had traveled more, I might find this present situation easier."

She fell into a gloomy silence.

"You've had bad news, I see," he said. "The morning I left you sounded optimistic that Halmir would pack up camp. But he hasn't."

"No."

"He means you harm, doesn't he?"

He looked her in the eyes and she found it hard not to turn away or fabricate an answer. The memory of Halmir's hands around her wrists caused her to shiver. How could he make her feel like this all the way from Lossarnach?

"What did Adan tell you?" she asked.

"He only told me anything concerning himself." When she looked troubled, he added, "And I have to say I take a dim view of not being thought trustworthy. Why on earth would you tell Adan to keep secrets?"

Her hand fluttered in the air. "This whole situation is teaching me to be more wary. I didn't want any rumors circulating if someone overheard."

"While I think caution is best, you know I would never spread tales."

"Honestly, Prince Thengel, I am reminded that I don't know you very well at all."

His brows knit together and he seemed unable to think of anything to say to that. They crunched their way over the gravel path, letting the curve of the hedges guide them. Though they did not meet anyone on their path, they often heard the murmurings of others on the other side of the juniper.

"Will Adan be all right?" Morwen asked after a time. "Halmir won't forget that he helped me."

"Don't worry about Adan." Prince Thengel kicked a stick out of their path. "He acted with his eyes open. Ecthelion has put him under my protection. If your cousin doesn't like it, he will have to complain to the Captain of the Tower of Guard. Somehow I doubt he'll feel tempted."

"Will he stay here with you, then?"

"Yes, until he returns to Ithilien, which is what he wants."

"Adan is lucky in his friends," Morwen observed. She felt buoyant with relief.

"He isn't the only one. I would like you to think of me as an ally in this. Won't you tell me what has happened since I left?"

"Here?" Morwen looked doubtfully at the hedges on either side. While it gave the illusion of privacy, she knew they could be heard all too easily.

"There's a quiet spot I know."

Thengel stopped suddenly, as if something over the hedge had caught his eye. The tension in his shoulders reminded her of a spooked cat. He twisted around, thinking.

"Are you all right?"

He ignored the question. "Follow me."

He led her swiftly down the path, then all but shoved her through a gap in the bushes that she hadn't noticed, which put them in a new lane in the garden.

"Sorry," he said. "I thought we should take this path." Thengel also looked back at the gap in the hedge and his face went slack. "This way."

Before she knew it, he had spun her into another narrow parting in the shrubbery and she found herself in a narrow sward that ended in the stone battlement encircling the citadel. Prince Thengel followed and together they huddled against the wall.

"What…"

"Shh. Wait."

Someone passed by along the hedge, but didn't see the gap that Thengel had ushered her through. She heard someone muttering in a foreign language, a woman's voice. It sounded like cursing, but it was hard to tell with Rohirric. From what little Guthere had managed to teach them, even a cheerful good morning sounded intimidating.

"Not a friend of yours?" she whispered.

"Friend? Béma, no. My sister."

Morwen stared at him. This far from the terrace the darkness made it hard to see his features well. "Your sister? Then why are we hiding?"

"Shh."

"If you shush me again I will be very cross," she hissed.

"Sorry."

They waited until the crunch of gravel faded completely away. She felt the tension drain from his shoulders and arms.

"That was close," he said, sounding pleased and relieved. "Wynflaed doesn't know the gardens like I do."

"Why are you avoiding your sister?" she asked.

He snorted, as if the answer should be obvious. "She isn't someone you want to meet."

Morwen pursed her lips, then said, "I think I can decide that for myself."

"Some other time, then," Thengel said, fishing into a small pouch hanging on his belt. "But fair warning."

"Why? What is she like?"

"For starters she has a sword named Cwealmbonda." He noticed her puzzled expression. "It translates to something like death-husband."

Morwen stared. Guthere hadn't told her anything about Prince Thengel's sister. "Why does she carry a sword?" Not that she didn't think a woman should carry a sword - she could see how it would be useful. Halmir might think differently about the way he treated her. But it wasn't the common practice in Gondor.

"Because she is a shieldmaiden and a zealot," he said sharply. "So, if you don't mind, I'd prefer a little peace this evening." He pulled out something that looked like a file from his pocket. Then he turned to face the vine-choked wall.

Morwen looked around the little alcove. It didn't appear to have any openings.

"What if she comes back? This is a dead end."

"Is it?" Thengel felt around the wall, pushing aside vines and kicking away stones. His fingers stilled suddenly and a look of expectation brightened his face. With a smart jerk the vines snapped. Falling away, they revealed a seam in the wall.

"Here we are."

He jimmied the device, a slim metal file from his pocket, into the seam. A scrape, a groan, and then a pop. A door scraped open by a mere inch. His fingers pulled it open, scudding over the gravel and weeds.

"Don't you dare show that to anyone in Imloth Melui," she said, thinking of her own garden wall.

"I swear." He grinned and put the file away. "Now in we go."

Morwen peeked around his shoulder to see what lay past the door. He gently nudged her through with his hand on her back. He followed behind, shutting the door. She was surprised to see that someone had built a trellis on the interior side so that the door looked like a fixed portion of the wall. The seam between the door and wall were concealed by climbing morning glories, now tightly closed against the evening.

"What is this place?" she asked.

Prince Thengel took a deep breath and looked about him with an affectionate expression.

"It's the garden behind the King's House - currently in the Steward's use." He pointed to a window nearest side of the house where it met the wall. Morwen noted that all the windows were dark, which meant no one would observe them here.

"I'd climb over the wall between these gardens and then slip away through Merethrond when I needed to escape for a little while. Turgon never used the hall much, so I could pass through undetected most of the time. Ecthelion found my climbing the wall and falling over the other side entertaining." He gave her a wry look. "Years later he admitted there was a door."

"Will Steward Turgon mind that you've broken into his garden?"

"I doubt it."

Morwen turned to view the prospect. They stood on the lip of a sunken garden. Little flagstone steps descended on four sides. Below, four rose beds were enclosed by double hedges, which had once been carefully trimmed into tight boxes. Each corner of the hedges was capped with rounded laurel trees. In the center, a marble fountain gurgled sluggishly. The hedge corners pointing toward the fountain were beveled and within each bevel, a large planter rested.

Morwen wandered down the lane nearest them. The hedges and laurels made her feel sheltered. It almost felt like wandering beneath her own trees at home. The square fountain with its ailing pump sat crumbling in the center surrounded by creeping weeds with tiny yellow flowers. The little garden looked beautiful in a forlorn sort of way. Morwen didn't like the stone city and it made her feel a little hopeful to see flora winning against the cold stone, even if it did mean the fountain was falling apart. It had probably been there since the house was built ages ago.

"It doesn't look like anyone takes care of this place?"

Thengel shrugged. "Not since Ecthelion's mother died, I don't think. She loved this garden, but Turgon spends most of his time on the Steward's seat or in his tower."

"And Ecthelion's wife?"

"I think she prefers interiors."

"I can tell."

Tall foxgloves grew in each planter like points on a compass, but they seemed to Morwen to droop. She knelt down beside one and plunged her fingers into the dirt. The soil felt completely dry.

"How hard could it be to make sure the gardener isn't shirking his duties?" She held out her handful of dirt to show Thengel. "Look, it just crumbles away."

He gripped the underside of her wrist so that her hand rested on top of his palm and pulled her up. "Yes, I see." He looked close to laughing.

"Is there a shed nearby or a watering can?" she asked.

"No, not that I can see."

Morwen pulled her hand away. She rubbed the dirt between her fingers and saw the dark semi circles under her nails with chagrin. She wrinkled her nose.

"What is it?" he asked.

She showed him her dirty fingernails. "What will Lady Rían say?"

He laughed and produced a handkerchief for her. "Here, wash off in the fountain."

When she went to do so, she saw a tin cup abandoned at the bottom of the basin. She reached in and pulled it out, shaking off the water. Prince Thengel came up beside her.

"Found something?" he asked. "It looks like Denethor has been sneaking meals out here."

"Lord Ecthelion's son?"

Prince Thengel nodded. "There's a family campaign about his eating habits."

"Maybe they've been successful? This cup looks like it's been out here a while. But it will suit my purposes."

Morwen inspected the inside of the cup. Rust had had its way with it, but the overall structure looked sound. It would suffice. She filled the cup with water. But when she turned toward the nearest planter, she felt cold water running down her leg.

"There's a hole," Morwen gasped, holding the cup as far away from her body as possible a fitful flow of water arced downward. She turned the now empty cup over and examined the bottom with her fingertip. Rust had eaten thin cracks along the bottom edge that she hadn't seen in the dark.

"At least it isn't wine this time," Prince Thengel pointed out.

Trust him to remember that! She made a face, which he returned with a benign smile.

"Here, allow me." He took the cup in his own large palm, which covered most of the cracks. "You don't want to ruin your dress."

"It's only water," she scoffed.

He looked down at her, then away. "Mmm hmm."

While his back was turned, she looked down at her knees and she just barely stifled a gasp. The wet fabric was entirely transparent, clinging to her legs like a second yellow skin. She knew it was little better than a slip!

Morwen picked the wet fabric away from her legs and tried to fluff the skirt dry while Prince Thengel watered the flowers for her. It was a messy affair, despite his best efforts. By the time she felt satisfied that the flowers had enough to drink, his leggings looked little dryer than her dress.

"You know, I think most of it ended up in my shoes somehow." He put the cup down on the fountain edge and pointed down to the leather slippers. "Listen."

She did listen as he paced up the far side of the fountain. His footsteps had a decidedly squelchy sound.

"Sorry," she said. "I could have done it…." Then she remembered her dress.

"Never mind that. Let's talk while we dry out," he said.

It would have to be a long conversation, Morwen thought. She followed Thengel to a bench down one of the lanes. The backrest looked half hidden by vines. She leaned back against the foliage, not caring if every spider hiding there fell into her lap. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the green scent and felt her body relax. A garden felt so much pleasanter than the inside of a ballroom. From this prospect against the wall they directly faced the house. She counted the stories and the windows. Was this a peaceful home, she wondered?

"What has happened at Bar-en-Ferin since I left?"

"Well, we've had several fires," she said, "where the men camp."

"Fires." Prince Thengel leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He plucked one of the leaves from its vine and turned it over with his fingers. "Idiots. I'm glad you have Beldir's help."

"Beldir broke his leg two days before I left Lossarnach," she told him.

Prince Thengel's eyelids drooped. "What happened?" he asked in a low voice.

"He says he heard an animal rooting around on his roof the night before we were to leave to Minas Tirith. Beldir fell when he went up to look for damage."

"Has he had problems with animals in his roof before?"

"No."

"I see." He began to shred the leaf and let the pieces fall to the ground. "Halmir knew you were leaving?"

"Hundor did, so…yes."

She watched him vent his spleen on another leaf. After his third, she reached out and covered his hands. His grip on the poor leaf slackened and the last pieces fell. She let go.

Prince Thengel sat up straight again and adjusted himself on the bench so he could see her plainly. "What made you leave?"

Morwen pressed her fingers into her forehead. "Oh, it's a stupid muddle. Halmir's entangled himself and the estate. He borrowed money to turn the orchard into some sort of haven for fashionable city people and pitched it to his friends as an investment opportunity. I disliked his scheme before, but this is worse."

Prince Thengel winced. "How much?"

"A very great amount. I have no idea how he thinks he can repay his friends any time soon."

"What did Halmir give as security?"

"Me, I think."

He gave her a stern look. "What do you mean?"

"I worked it out, finally," she said, looking down at the white cenedril pattern on her lap. "If I married him he could do whatever he liked with Bar-en-Ferin without any resistance. I think it surprised him that I refused and the delay is making him nervous."

"You can always resist."

Morwen shook her head mournfully. "I don't have any right of succession to the estate. Adrahil says the agreement died with my parents. Even if I did marry Halmir, the law doesn't give a wife any leverage," she finished bleakly.

"Well, you aren't going to be his wife. So?"

"So, even now I can't keep up with Halmir. Every time I think it can't get worse, he surprises me. I don't want any of his friends thinking I am also responsible for paying back the loans."

"You didn't sign anything," he assured her. "They can't touch you."

"But what will they do to Halmir if he can't pay them back? Could they take Bar-en-Ferin?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," he said. "Let's first find out if Halmir has any claim to the estate."

Morwen sighed angrily. "I told you that I don't, so—"

"Even if you don't, does that automatically mean that Halmir does?"

"Adrahil believes that there isn't any legal basis to stop Halmir from claiming Bar-en-Ferin in Forlong's name."

The Prince regarded that last roadblock with a sour frown. But when he spoke, his tone was gentle.

"May I ask what you plan to do if Halmir follows through with his threats? Where would you go if he did claim the land?"

Plan? Morwen hadn't had any time to plan, only to avoid. Halmir kept her on her toes, kept her household in chaos, robbed her even of the peace she had taken for granted under her roof. She pulled the frazzled strands of consciousness still left to her and tried to envision the next step. Minas Tirith had been her next step, but she couldn't dodge Halmir forever. Eventually he would lose patience and there would be a bathing house where her apple trees once stood.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I had hoped to meet the Steward tonight and make arrangements for an audience, but he didn't come." She kicked at a stray pebble beneath the bench. "I've wasted three days with nothing accomplished. Adrahil thinks that with the deputies from Lake-town still in the city it could be several more weeks before we can put my case forward."

"I see. The events in Rhovanion this winter have disrupted many things."

She looked at him. "What do you mean?"

Prince Thengel looked like he had to swallow around a rock in his throat. "After the Battle of Five Armies, orcs and wolves were scattered all over wilderland. Some we now know made for the remaining hidey-holes in Mordor. Many of them, well…"

"Slipped into Ithilien," she finished, closing her eyes.

"Yes."

"The orcs that ambushed and killed my cousin were from Rhovanion?"

"Frár told us they came from as far as the Mount Gundabad and many followed Thorin Oakenshield's expedition from the Misty Mountains."

This news felt like a blow to her gut. Morwen covered her mouth and took deep breaths through her nose. No one in Ithilien, not even Captain Ecthelion, could have known till it was too late. How could they prepare for the onslaught? An onslaught with reverberations, which even now they felt beneath the shade of Imloth Melui.

"How did the orcs know the Dwarves were making for Erebor to reclaim their treasure?"

Prince Thengel stirred next to her. "That is a question that has disturbed the councils of the wise and one that I am unable to answer."

Oh Hardang. Morwen felt, by turns, numb and heartsick. They hadn't had a warning. Not a rumor. And the consequences for Ferneth, and Forlong, and yes, even herself, were great.

"I never would have thought," she murmured, "that some unknown Dwarves returning to their home in a far away mountain would mean that I would have to leave mine."

Prince Thengel mulled over something in his mind. In the gathering dark, it was difficult to see exactly what he might be thinking. His arms were crossed as if he were holding in some inner struggle from her view.

"What is it?" she asked gently.

"I," he looked at her, almost pleadingly, "I'm sorry I couldn't protect Hardang."

Morwen didn't know what it felt like to fight alongside someone and then to lose that person. She wasn't a warrior. Guilt she could imagine, but she knew better than to claim she understood what he felt as a survivor. When she recalled how she had earlier accused him of not truly grieving for Hardang, she felt ashamed.

"I know you are," she told him. "But nobody blames you."

"Nobody?" He half laughed, a bitter sound.

"I don't and I don't think you should blame yourself either."

He looked down at her. "If we were better prepared, Hardang would be alive and you wouldn't be in this mess with Halmir."

"Is there any profit in thinking in ifs?" she gently reproved. "It certainly won't help me against Halmir now. Nothing will if the Steward can't."

Prince Thengel stretched his legs out and studied the tips of his shoes. "Do you have an appointment with him?"

"No. Adrahil hasn't applied to his clerk yet."

"If Adrahil plans to go that route, it will take weeks. How would it be if I put a word in with the Steward instead?"

"Can you?" she asked, turning on the bench to see him better. Their knees brushed together.

"With your permission, yes. Turgon is like a father to me," he said with the first hint of a smile since he mentioned the orcs. "No visiting hours required."

Morwen thought about it from several different angles. She didn't feel entirely comfortable engaging the Prince to act for her. And yet, if her connection to him as a friend gave her any leverage with the Steward that she couldn't get from Adrahil, why not take advantage of such an offer? Would her father think it prudent? She didn't know. And he wasn't here to advise her anymore.

"I wouldn't want you to abuse your relationship with Turgon," she said at last. "But I confess it would make me very happy if you did speak to him. Thank you, Prince Thengel."

"Thengel will do."

Morwen held out her hand to him. He took it. "Morwen, then," she said.

A light appeared in one of the upper windows of the mansion and they each looked up, squinting.

"That would be Denethor getting ready for bed, I think," he told her.

"Should we go back? Lady Rían might be wondering where I've gone." Before Thengel could provoke her on that point again, she hastily added, "I wouldn't want to distress her for doing Adrahil a favor - whether I needed it or not."

"Fair enough."

Thengel rose and grimaced against the clammy dampness in his shoes. They squished with each step toward the hidden door.

"It's not a dignified sound, is it?" he reflected.

Morwen shook her head.

He squared his shoulders. "Nothing for it, but onward."

…

They passed a few more lingering couples hiding in the hedges who barely masked their surprise at Morwen's damp gown and Thengel's squashing feet. When the terrace came into view, they disturbed a couple that had been whispering on a bench. The couple stared as Thengel squelched past.

"Good evening," he drawled. "Nice night."

The couple just stared. Morwen tried not to laugh but by the time they entered Merethrond, neither of them were in a state of composure.

They entered the hall and were immediately met by a tall, elegant woman watching out the windows with her arms folded. With the noise of the remaining guests, the sounds of Thengel's shoes didn't reach her until they were before her. Her eyes darted down and she flinched with each gurgle and squish of the leather.

"I see you've found a charming partner without my help," she said, addressing the prince. "Did you fish her out of the fountains?" she asked, looking them up and down.

"Not quite," Thengel answered. "Morwen, have you met Idhren?"

Idhren! This was the woman that Lady Rían had been complaining about earlier, though Morwen wondered how she could have dared. Her father would have described Idhren as resplendent and probably the closest thing that Minas Tirith had seen to a queen in generations.

Lady Idhren gave Morwen a cool smile. "We have not had that pleasure. Morwen of…?"

"Morwen of Lossarnach," he answered. "Let me present the Lady of the Tower of Guard."

Morwen had never heard of any such person, but she sounded important. "Oh."

Idhren raised an eyebrow. "My dear," she said to Morwen, "that's just his way of saying I'm Ecthelion's wife."

She held out her hand and Morwen politely squeezed Idhren's fingers, before realizing with horror that her own fingernails still had dirt under them despite the water. Idhren saw them, she could tell. In fact, she felt that somehow Idhren could see a great many things about Morwen within a short space of time. It unnerved her to feel scrutinized and cataloged in mere seconds.

"Lossarnach. How interesting. I suppose you met this spring." Idhren turned to Thengel, "Darling, you didn't tell me you had such a lovely friend."

There was some veiled meaning behind Idhren's words, but Morwen didn't quite know what that was. She hoped they could politely dismiss themselves from her. Something about the lady's cool playfulness baffled Morwen.

"Where are you staying, Lady Morwen? I shall have to come visit you."

"I—"

"Have you seen Lady Rían?" Thengel asked, interrupting. "Morwen is in her charge."

Idhren let her head fall back and she laughed, as if she found Lady Rían a great source of amusement. "Why, yes, I have. A good deal too much this evening."

"Where is she?" Morwen asked.

"Quite gone."

"Gone? But Adrahil spoke to her about me."

"She must have forgotten. It's fortunate I found you," Idhren told her. "She left with her husband, citing a headache and that she had to make sure her daughter didn't die in the street."

Morwen went pale. "Aranel—"

"Is fine, I'm sure." She reached forward and squeezed Morwen's arm with a slim, white hand. "Prince Adrahil would never let her die on the curb. He'd at least tuck her into bed first. I always found him to be a conscientious young man."

Thengel had been listening to his friend with a cool, bland expression, but now he looked stern. "Idhren, don't tease. Morwen is their cousin."

"Poor creature. Don't mind me." Idhren waved her hand as if to dismiss her earlier teasing. "Lady Rían is an alarmist. I'm sure all the Princess needed was fresh air."

Morwen turned to Thengel. "Lady Rían and Lord Belehir were going to see me home."

"That can be easily remedied." Idhren surprised Morwen greatly by tucking her arm through hers and began to usher her toward the staircase. Thengel followed behind after a few seconds of puzzlement.

Idhren led her right through the middle of the dance floor. Instead of causing a collision and among the dancers, to Morwen's amazement the whole floor seemed accutely aware of Lady Idhren and anticipated her movement. They parted for her and her charge like the mist making way for the sun.

"I would offer you my protection, Lady Morwen," she said confidentially, "but I can't abandon the guests. You look so tired. Doesn't she, Thengel? You will have to take her yourself."

They stopped at the foot of the staircase where she had entered Merethrond with Adrahil and Aranel. How much time had elapsed since then?

"What about Wynflaed?" he asked, looking around the room.

"Wynflaed could accompany you, too," Idhren answered, "but I've sent her home with Rurik since she couldn't find you earlier. She's such an odd woman. One would think the pleasures of a ball were completely lost on her."

Morwen observed an interesting change come over Thengel's countenance. He looked like a man who had just felt the earth shaking beneath his feet.

"With Rurik?" he repeated. "King Bard's deputy?"

Idhren smiled, Morwen thought, or at least she was showing teeth. "With Rurik, etc., etc."

"By herself? Idhren, you realize my sister is a…"

"She's a shieldmaiden, as everyone keeps telling me. That's why I arranged it. Rurik might learn a thing or two." Idhren smirked. "I certainly hope so. Now, get along and don't keep this pretty young lady waiting."

"But…"

"Offer her your arm, you oaf. She's drooping. Now go." Idhren herded them up the stairs. They were parted at the top. "Thengel," Morwen heard Idhren whisper. "If I were you, I'd take the long way around."

"Don't be foolish," he muttered. "I know what you're thinking but —"

"Good. I hate to be obscure," she replied. "Good night, Lady Morwen. There are more fountains on the way out. I'll visit you when I can!"

Idhren retreated down the staircase. She was met by Lord Ecthelion, who glanced up at them with a puzzled (and mildly threatening, thanks to his scar) expression. He seemed to want to speak to Thengel, but was led off by his wife toward the few remaining figures still dancing.

"What was she talking about?" Morwen asked as she watched husband and wife retreat.

"Idhren? Nothing of consequence," he said hastily.

"Are you worried about your sister?" she asked.

"Béma, no," he said, looking surprised. "I'm worried about Rurik."

…

When they passed into the cool evening air, Morwen exhaled with relief. Then she wrinkled her nose.

"Do I look like I'm drooping? I don't feel like I am."

"No, you look beautiful," he said with the distracted air of someone trying to have two or three thoughts all at the same time.

The evening felt hot again. "Have you been friends with Lady Idhren long?"

"Ages. She was one of the first friends I had when I arrived in Minas Tirith."

"She is a very fine woman."

"She is certainly that," he said warmly. "You'd be good friends."

Morwen frowned. "I don't know. We don't seem to be in the same league."

He looked at her oddly, his mind focusing again on the present. "Why do you say that?"

Morwen blinked at him. Wasn't it obvious? "She's so stately and self-possessing. The room pivoted around her. Didn't you notice?"

Thengel smiled at that. "You know, when I first saw you, I thought the same thing."

"Me?" That didn't seem very likely, she thought.

"Sure. The whole room seemed to bend toward you. And you sailed in with flower blossoms falling behind you like the queen of Imloth Melui."

She sniffed. "There is no such person."

"No, but I was expecting someone more like Gildis, if you recall. You made a startling contrast."

"I forgot! I don't think poor Gildis ever will."

They laughed together and Morwen reflected that she liked this easy conversation much better than when she had first met him earlier in the evening. She felt thankful to be on good terms again.

They were soon in the middle of a crowd of revelers enjoying the fountain, ignoring the dead tree in the middle of it. Most of the candles in their little boats were extinguished. Thengel took Morwen's hand and led her through the press, using his broad shoulders to wedge a path for them.

"Your shoes must be uncomfortable," she said over the noise.

"Not bad."

"It was foolish, watering the plants like that. I guess we could have waited to talk to a servant. I don't know what came over me."

Thengel shrugged and said over his shoulder, "I said you were a champion. Whether it's keeping Beldir from flaying Gundor or saving thirsty flowers. Besides, you're at home with plants."

"I wish I was at home. At least until I remember that Halmir's waiting."

"Wait and see what the Steward will say," he reminded her. "Until then, don't waste too much time on Halmir. He doesn't deserve it."

…

The road to the Adrahil's townhome was crowded with departing revelers. Instead of enjoying a quiet walk, they were crushed nearly the whole way home and once they were out of the citadel, she could feel the gaze of many eyes upon them. She wondered if it was wise to allow Lady Idhren to arrange them, and she realized that's exactly what had happened. What was Idhren's motivation? Morwen shook herself. Too many people seemed to be too far ahead of her. That needed to change.

"What is the long way around?" she asked him, recalling what she had overheard. "I thought there was only one way through Minas Tirith."

Thengel looked suddenly vague. "It's an expression in the city."

"For what?"

"For taking one's time," he answered dryly.

"Oh. As if we could help it with all this foot traffic."

He looked at her and then away with a poorly suppressed smile. "Do you remember the day we walked to Anorian's well?"

"Yes," she said, puzzled by the change of subject. Perhaps it was natural that one walk would remind him of another such time.

"I would like to see the roses in bloom. We were too early before."

"Then you must come this summer," she faltered, "if I am still living there."

"You will be." Something in his tone caused her to look at him. It was the first note of optimism she had encountered in several weeks.

"You can't know that."

"Cheer up," he said. "Maybe Halmir has some legal clout, but I doubt a man like Halmir would make such a fuss if he felt as secure as he sounded."

Morwen stopped in her tracks and a pedestrian bumped into her from behind, knocking her against Thengel's side. His arm circled round her waist to keep her from falling. The man skittered around them, muttering under his breath.

"Sorry," she said, as she found her footing again. "You think there's something we're missing?"

"Possibly." He tucked her arm through his and they continued on.

Morwen brightened, then faltered. "But he's acting as regent. By the time Forlong grows up, it will be too late to reverse the decision. Halmir could decide to managed the estate himself until that time."

"Can he?"

Morwen shrugged helplessly. "Who's to stop him? There are five score of his men installed in my orchard and my lord Forlong can barely hold his own head up. We won't know what the child wants for another two years - and that will have more to do with food and a clean nappy."

He grinned at that. "That is the tricky part. But I think we can come up with a solution once we figure out what we're missing."

"We? Prince Thengel…"

"Thengel."

"Yes. You keep saying we as if this involves you. While you agreed to speak to the Steward, that's more than I have a right to expect."

"As you say, Halmir has an army. You will need help paying out your cousin and I owe you a favor." He gave her a clear-eyed smile.

"Are you serious?" she gasped.

"I knew Hardang. His brother is not honoring his memory," Thengel said gravely. "Where I come from, a man who steals from a woman, especially his own kinswoman, would have a reckoning on his hands."

"Technically, he isn't stealing anything," she pointed out.

"Your livelihood, he is."

That was true. "But why would you want to get involved in this headache? And don't say because of Guthere."

"Why not?"

"I'd be ashamed if you thought you owed me for helping an injured man."

"Then let's just say I know what it's like to live in the wake of a greedy relative." He looked down at his soggy shoes, then up again. "I wouldn't be here if someone hadn't intervened for me too. Trust me, we will think of something."

Morwen bit the inside of her cheek. She didn't know what Thengel could do when Adrahil couldn't think of anything. But he was at least willing to try and that's what she needed - any little sliver of hope. As for trust, what did she have to go on?

Morwen considered Hardang a man of good character and he had found Prince Thengel to be a worthy companion. There was the regard that Guthere and Cenhelm and the rest held for him, men under his power, who he could make happy or unhappy on a whim. Then there was his behavior as her guest. He hadn't done anything untoward. When she had confronted him about Hardang, he had owned his blame and apologized.

He was a man who could see his own faults and make amends. She admired that more than anything. Part of her mind whispered prudence, but her heart seemed already to know the answer. She would trust him, and either that trust would pay off or it wouldn't.

And if it did, she wondered for the first time what the cost might be. She looked up at his profile. Sensing her attention, he turned.

"We're almost to your gate," he told her. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she answered. She thought she might be.

Thengel walked her to the gate and spoke to the porter who admitted them into the courtyard. His hand cupped her elbow as he steered her toward the imposing marble doors of the Prince of Dol Amroth's house. To her, it was the most familiar landmark in the city. Somehow standing there with the prince she had a different perspective. Or maybe she felt different. As they waited on the steps for the servant to attend the door, Morwen realized that there were more changes than she'd reckoned on since coming to Minas Tirith.


	24. Houses of Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: See bottom of chapter for updated character list, because unwieldy cast. Also, apologies for extra amount of typos. I didn't get a chance to print this chapter for edits. I also don't know if coffee was agriculturally or politically feasible in Gondor, but if I'm wrong I don't wanna be right.

Adrahil was waiting for Morwen in the breakfast room late the next morning. She caught him mid yawn while trying to pour himself a cup of coffee.

"Excuse me," he drawled. "Coffee?"

"Please."

She accepted a mug from him and took her seat at the table. "No Aranel yet?"

"Not yet. I'm surprised to see you up already. Toast?"

"No, thank you." She wrapped her fingers around the steaming coffee and breathed in the nutty fragrance. It was expensive and hard to come by, so she never kept any in the valley. "I couldn't sleep."

He shrugged. "That's going around," he dryly. "Too many late night adventures."

Aranel had not died on the curb or in her bed - or at all, in fact. This information Morwen had this first hand from Adrahil upon her arrival in the house in the early hours of the morning when she had walked into the middle of a family dispute. Lord Belehir was insisting that his wife would go home and Adrahil was insisting that she certainly wouldn't stay. In the midst of this, Lady Rían insisted she would see her daughter.

Morwen was only grateful that she and Prince Thengel had decided to part ways on the doorstep, so that he wasn't also a witness to the melodrama. It was plain that everyone inside the house had forgotten all about her while pursuing their own ends. Morwen could tell by the way each of them gaped when the servant led her in.

Her appearance had a somewhat diffusing effect on the trio, which she decided was fortunate. Lady Rían, perhaps realizing her error and not being able to withstand the renewed energy behind her son-in-law's glare, had allowed her husband to escort her out of the house shortly after Morwen entered it. She heard the full account of the evening from Adrahil while they trudged up to their bedrooms. That felt far too recent for Morwen's liking, but it was very nearly noon.

"I am sorry you weren't able to see the Steward last night," he said as he buttered a piece for himself. "It wasn't the best evening for you, overall."

"That isn't true," Morwen told him. "I did enjoy many things about last night. And Prince Thengel said he would speak to Turgon for me, so that settles that."

Adrahil stopped mid bite and let the toast dangle in front of his mouth. "He did?"

"He thought it would be faster," she said into her coffee. "Besides, he is a principal witness to Halmir's behavior."

"That may be." Then Adrahil said, "About last night. How did you make it home after we left?"

"Thengel. Again."

"Thengel?" He dropped his toast on the tablecloth jam side down. He spoke as he unstuck the bread from the linen. "Really? Listen, Morwen, before Aranel comes down, I…"

"Before what?" Aranel asked as she entered. She wore her housecoat and her hair fell over her shoulder in a simple braid.

Adrahil shoved the toast in his mouth.

"You're getting crumbs all over your clothes." Aranel poured herself some coffee and gave his appearance a critical scan.

Adrahil brushed himself off. He chewed and then cleared his throat. "Morwen was just telling me an interesting piece of news about Prince Thengel. It would seem that she did not come home on her own last night. Instead, she had a nice long walk with Prince Thengel."

Aranel's puzzled gaze flickered between her husband and her cousin. "What do you mean? Of course Morwen wasn't on her own. She came home with my parents as we arranged. Didn't you Morwen?"

Morwen felt like sinking into the ground. "You were in bed when I came home," was all she said.

Aranel down sat stiffly, a grave expression on her face, and waited.

"Your mother forgot about me, I think. But it's all right," Morwen spoke quickly as Aranel's eyes rounded. "Lady Idhren suggested Prince Thengel walk me back and look — I'm just fine."

"Mother left you behind. Lady Idhren sent you home with the Prince." She crumpled a napkin in her hands, the only sign of her foundering temper. "I see."

"I'm sure Lady Rían was just distracted by her worry for you," Morwen told her apologetically.

"I am aware of that, Morwen." Aranel sipped her coffee, thinking. "And what are your thoughts on this, Adrahil?"

"About your mother?"

"About the inconvenience this caused for Prince Thengel."

Morwen started to protest, but they weren't paying her any attention.

"Oh, he's making this very easy for me," Adrahil congratulated himself. "He's to speak to Turgon, too."

"And what are you going to do?" Aranel pressed.

Adrahil leaned back in his chair. "Me?"

Aranel tapped the tabletop. "Direct action, I think, is what we need here. I've thought about it after we missed our opportunity last night. You should ride back to Lossarnach and tell Halmir his behavior will not be tolerated any further or else Belfalas will have something to say about his conduct." She frowned. "And to prove that my advice is sound, I am going to follow it to my mother's house today. Last night will not repeat itself."

Adrahil looked concerned. "If that's what you think is best - about your mother, I mean."

"I do. I should have done it a year ago." She gave Morwen a smile. "You see, your coming here and delaying our trip has done us some good. Adrahil and I were pretending that if we slipped out of the city and hid in Dol Amroth, that it would solve things with my overbearing mother. Well, reality has come home to roost. Next it's going to be your turn to try it on Halmir."

"But I was always direct with Halmir," Morwen said, feeling defensive. She couldn't help it if he refused to listen. "Beldir said that this is a difficult case because Halmir feels he has some rights. What if he doesn't listen to Adrahil either?"

"Then you will come with us to Dol Amroth," Aranel said as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"That's all very well for me, but what about my household? I'm responsible to them."

Would Halmir keep any of them on? Would they want to stay? Where would they go? She thought of poor Hareth, who was born in Ithilien in the days when the rangers were actively clearing the forest. She'd already lost one home and now to have another one disappear.

Then Morwen remembered Guthere. Maybe it wouldn't be so difficult a change for Hareth. Though what her son, Gundor, would think, Morwen didn't know.

Maybe Gildis would come with her? She had followed Hirwen from Arnach, after all. Ioneth would find some goat herder or woodcutter to marry.

What to do with Beldir? Halmir's plans would hit him the hardest. She couldn't see Halmir tolerating the overseer, and vice versa. And with the orchard compromised, what would he have to do? Adrahil had looked into her affairs and she had some money that she could use to help them, but not much was left when she considered the cost of setting up a new life for herself far away in Belfalas.

"Don't worry. We'll think of something," Adrahil assured her. "First, let's hear what the Steward has to say. Then I'll come to Lossarnach like Aranel suggests."

"What about Aranel?"

Aranel winked at Morwen. "I've lived in Minas Tirith without Adrahil for twenty-four years," she answered. "I think I can manage a week or two without him."

"My bloom must be fading if that's the case."

"Not a bit."

Adrahil smiled fondly at Aranel as he rose from his seat. "Well, if I'm to go to Lossarnach, I'd better see to some business on the Harlond and write to my father," he told them. "I'll see you both at dinner."

After he left them alone, Aranel helped herself to some fruit and toast. "So, Morwen, aside from being neglected by your friends and relations, how did you pass the evening? Adrahil said you were dancing with Prince Thengel when we left. It seems he is the theme of the night."

"No," said Morwen. A thought struck her. "We never seem to dance."

Aranel set down the butter knife she was using and looked at Morwen carefully. "Then what did you do?"

Morwen related the events of the evening. Aranel seemed stuck on the part where they had left Merethrond together, spiriting away into Lady Idhren's garden.

"He spent a week under my roof, Aranel. I don't see why one evening conferring together in private should raise any concern about my conduct – or his." Though she tried to appreciate it, Morwen felt her cousins' protectiveness beginning to stifle her - particularly after Thengel had challenged her yielding behavior the night before.

"I'm not certain if I should be thankful or concerned, Morwen," Aranel said lightly as she poured more coffee. "I do believe you are taking your opportunities for granted."

"I am not. He offered to speak to Steward Turgon for me. That's a positive stride, I think."

Aranel set down her coffee cup, staring down into it. She opened her mouth and then quickly shut it again. Then she scrutinized the butter dish. Finally, she shook her head and offered Morwen a piece of toast.

"Have I do something wrong?" Morwen asked.

"No," Aranel answered wearily. "I don't think you could do anything wrong if you wanted to. That's your fatal flaw."

"I don't understand."

"Some women might have taken advantage of a nice, long walk in a moonlit night with a young ma." She added, "I've been subtle with you about the degree of your friendship with Prince Thengel. Do you think of him as anything other than your messenger to the Steward?"

Morwen bristled at the note of censure she detected in Aranel's voice. "He is a friend." When Aranel gave her a dissatisfied look, Morwen added, "And he offered his help. I didn't ask for it."

"He seems quite gallant toward you, Morwen. There are some who might also call him handsome. And you are certainly very pretty. Two strong inducements toward, you know, interest."

"Aranel, you are mistaking kindness for something else," Morwen warned her. This was beginning to feel suspiciously like some of the conversations she had had with Halmir. She thought he was paranoid. But if Aranel thought so? She wanted to tuck these thoughts away for later. It was like receiving a letter. She recognized with interest the hand that had written the address, but she wasn't ready to read the contents.

"I would have to observe you together to really know. It could be possible. Don't you like him?"

Morwen considered this. Prince Thengel was certainly a change from the standard tall, dark Gondorians.

"I like his eyes," she decided. "He is kind and he has seen and done a great deal, which makes him interesting."

"What about, I don't know, his crown?"

"He wasn't wearing one," Morwen muttered.

Aranel looked her in the eyes. Morwen felt a challenge in them. "He will one day. It's a little difficult to separate the man from the mantle."

"I suppose so." Morwen rolled some breadcrumbs that had fallen onto the table with her finger while she thought about it. "He doesn't make a show of it. He prefers for people to think of him as Ecthelion's lieutenant rather than the crown prince of Rohan."

"How do you know?"

Morwen shrugged. "It's more a feeling. When we were together in Lossarnach, he barely spoke of his home. The way he cuts his hair, the way he dresses, is all very Gondorian in style. Haven't you noticed? He looks very little like his men, except in coloring, which is odd, because I think he's very fond of Cenhelm and Thurstan and Guthere. He makes himself appear other to them."

"He has spent half his life in Gondor. It would be hard for him not to assimilate after so long."

Morwen considered Aranel's observations. She had thought the same when they were walking to Anorian's well. Home was an important thing. What would it do to a person who could never settle in somewhere? He might have been born the Prince of Rohan, but now she suspected events had shaped him into a person nobody had expected.

"Well, it looks like you'll be staying with us a little while longer," said Aranel, letting the subject of the Prince drop. "What do you want to do today? I would invite you to come to my mother's but I don't think either of us really want that, given the topic of discussion."

Morwen suppressed a shudder. She didn't want to see Rían in high dudgeon while her daughter asserted her rights as a full-grown woman. And Morwen had business of her own to tend to.

"I want to visit the Warden. Nanneth sent me with instructions for replenishing her stock and I have yet to see my parents' memorial in the garden."

Aranel nodded. "Very well. I'll accompany you there on my way to my mother's once I've dressed."

…

Morwen and Aranel parted company on the greensward encircling the Houses of Healing. Four fair towers rose in a quad and were enclosed by shining white walls; which concealed the only beauty the city had to boast, in Morwen's opinion, a thriving, well-tended garden. The shadow of decay that covered Minas Tirith hadn't fallen where so much green dwelled.

An attendant greeted her when she stepped into the propylaeum connecting the foremost towers. He wore the traditional gray garb associated with the Houses and spoke in a hushed tone.

"Would you please inform the Warden that I have arrived?"

The attendant gave her a benign smile. "Is the Warden expecting you, my lady?"

"No, but he will want to see me. Tell him it's Morwen of Lossarnach. I have a list of supplies. Would you give it to him?"

"I will take it to him myself, Lady Morwen," he said, bending at the waist. "Will you wait in the atrium?"

"Thank you, I'll wait in the garden."

The attendant retreated down the line of columns into the northwest tower. When he was gone, Morwen retraced her memory down flagstone paths southward toward the door leading to the outer wall. An open arcade of white stone butted up to the back of the south-facing towers and framed the garden. Morwen breathed deeply as she stepped inside. She loved the well-tended paths and the cool quiet that pervaded the shaded lawns. Healing would come to anyone here, she thought, given time.

Silence, save for the rustle of leaves in a breeze or the twitter of a bird, lay over the grounds like a soothing blanket. Morwen passed a few of the residents who were able to enjoy the garden. They sat deep in thought on benches or asleep in their chairs. She moved quietly around the clear pools that had tempted her as a child, toward the terraced beds that rose to the top of the wall. Nobody minded her.

Her parents' memorial trees were planted in the southern quadrant where the benefits of light and air were the best, just as the Warden had promised Morwen in his letters last year. A simple cairn of sea-smoothed stones from Belfalas's shores sat between the trees, marking the bed's significance. That had been Adrahil's touch.

Morwen squinted against the prickling behind her eyes. The cairn touched her more than she realized it would. Her memories of a long ago trip to Dol Amroth were mere shadows of childhood, but the fief had been a part of her father's identity.

Seeing the trees felt like seeing her own children. Morwen grew warm with affection at the sight of their light new leaves and clean bark. The gardeners had taken great care with them and the dark soil beneath their bases felt cool and well-watered.

"There you are, child, fingers deep in the mud again."

Morwen rose to her feet to greet the Warden with a little laugh at herself. He was broad man with a deep chest and silver hair tied back in a queue. His robes, despite the fashion, did not sweep the ground. One never knew what might be on the floor of the Houses.

She felt surprised to see he had a companion with him - none other than Lord Daeron. He smiled at her quizzically, providing her with a handkerchief to wipe her hands.

"What a pleasant surprise."

"Have you met Lord Daeron, my child?"

"We have," he answered for her. "Ours is a short acquaintance, but I hope we can remedy that."

Morwen felt momentarily at a loss at seeing him. She wanted to apologize, but didn't know how in front of the Warden.

"I hope so," she said lamely.

The Warden rocked back on his heels, a habit Morwen was familiar with. "Good, well, that saves me an introduction. I have your list from Nanneth, my dear. It will take a little time to put everything together. Where shall I instruct my steward to send the parcels?"

"To Prince Angelimir's home, please."

"Good. Now, how is my dear friend Nanneth?" He turned to Daeron. "We were students together under Warden Ardemin many years ago. She had the greatest gift for healing out of all his pupils. Too bad she wouldn't stay at the Houses. She insisted on returning to her little valleys and flowering vales."

"That is very good for us," Morwen replied. Then she recounted the resent surgery Nanneth had performed on Guthere, or as much of it as she could tell. He seemed very keen on all the parts that made her especially squeamish.

"And all on a plain wooden table with probably less than satisfactory lighting. Most impressive! I wonder if I could persuade her to write it up the procedure for us? Perhaps I should send a student down. I don't suppose you could…." The Warden glanced at the memorial trees and Morwen understood. "Well, listen to me carrying on. This must be the first time you've seen your apple trees since last summer." He shook his head. "Terrible loss."

"I think my parents would be pleased with them," she assured him. "They look healthy and happy."

"Happy? How can you tell?" Lord Daeron asked.

Morwen blinked at him in surprise. She had never had to vocalize it before. "Well, look at how the leaves and branches just reach up to the sun like nothing could be more delightful."

He squinted at the trees. "Yes, I see."

She didn't think he did, but allowed it to pass.

"Forgive me if I sound scheming, child," the Warden broke in. "But since we're talking of your parents, I want to mention a special project we've begun in partnership with the Archives that I spoke to Randir about some two years ago. I've just been telling Daeron all about it."

"Oh? I don't recall my father mentioning any special project."

"Back then we had hardly begun. Let me see, it's been three years since Master Uldor approached me about the possibility of a seed library. We are in the preliminary stages now."

"What is a seed library?" Morwen asked.

"The seed library is quite simple in concept. It has two goals. One is to preserve Gondor's native plants. Two, we wish to educate our citizens about the cultivation and preservation of our native flora, with a few special items included, such as your Hyarnustar Gold hybrid. It is one of the few plant samples we have with any ancestry from Númenórean flora. I convinced your father to provide us with seedlings from your orchard. I had hoped to show him the results this year, but alas."

"He never told me," she said.

The Warden lifted his upturned palms. "Well, it's still very preliminary, as I said. Maybe the thought nothing would come of it. The cultivation and educational aspect requires more attention and not a little funding. The Houses have limited space for more flowerbeds and of course the gardens are here for the benefit of our patients, not the general public. Under Master Uldor's direction, the Archive's trustees authorized the purchase of a small warehouse in the first circle with the purpose of broadening the scope our project to include a public garden in or near Minas Tirith."

Morwen imagined such a garden. "How wonderful!"

The Warden clasped his hands behind his back, looking pleased. "I would like to show you our progress on the project, but I am afraid you are pressed for time. I am taking Daeron down now. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day will suit you better?"

"I'm curious to see what you've done, especially if you say my father was involved. My afternoon is my own and I may be leaving the city shortly. I will go with you now, if Lord Daeron doesn't mind?"

Daeron bowed. "Nothing would give me more pleasure."

"Good, good," said the Warden. "I'll order a cart."

…

The warehouse resembled a large tool shed. Tools, trays, pots, bags of dirt, were hung on the wall or tucked onto shelves. It smelled musty, of dirt and compost. One wall was covered in banks of wooden drawers, carefully labeled. The Warden called it their seed catalog.

"How have you managed all this?" Daeron asked the Warden.

"Master Uldor found the warehouse and we have shared the expense. Fortunately, most of our stock has been donated and we're only burdened with the cost of supplies and of staffing it. For that we have had to rely on a few sturdy lads and lasses from the Pelennor. We are only now beginning to realize that we from Minas Tirith don't know what we don't know about gardening." He laughed to himself. "But you will judge for yourself if we are having any success."

The Warden led them through to the back of the warehouse, which opened into a desolate courtyard with a water pump at the center. A glass lean-to stood propped against the building. The Warden ushered Morwen inside. Before her, three rows of work benches ran in parallel lines down the length of the green house, one on each side of the wall and another down the middle. Rows of seedlings in wooden trays covered every surface, except for a sink. Even that had a stiff, green stalks poking out over the chipped rim where someone had left a shrub to drain.

Morwen almost cooed. Without waiting for her companions, she swept down the rows and brushed the tops of soft yet spikey green stems of herbs and flowers. Each tray had a simple label. Thymes, sages, marjorams, parsleys, saxifrages, stonecrops, primeroles, anemones, asphodel. The Warden had already recruited help from Ithilien, she gathered.

"Where will they go once they're ready for planting?" she called over her shoulder. "Surely there isn't a plot anywhere within the city walls that could contain as many plants as you plan to have growing once they're ready for the ground."

"That is the question, isn't it? We are looking into buying acreage on the Pelennor."

Morwen concealed her contempt as best she could. "Have you considered other options besides the Pelennor? It seems crowded with farms and homesteads as it is."

"Nothing is decided. The location will depend, of course, on the funding we receive from our donors. That's where Lord Daeron comes in, I'm afraid."

Daeron grinned. "If only you had approached me a year ago. I'm sorry, my friend. I've been funding another project and a second one is out of my power for the time being."

The Warden shrugged, a veteran campaigner when it came to patronage. "I'll take that as a definite maybe. Lady Morwen, perhaps you can help me persuade him?"

Morwen smiled beatifically. "It is a worthy cause, Lord Daeron. One that will have value for generations to come."

Daeron laughed, chagrined. "This isn't playing fair, Warden."

The Warden rocked back and forth on his feet with a pleased look on his face. "I know."

Morwen returned to the Wardens side and held out her hands to him. He took them in his own. "I promise to continue whatever my father began. This city needs more green! We'll see, but I'm sure Lord Daeron will do whatever he can — once it's in his power again."

"Thank you, Lady Morwen," Daeron replied, with relief.

"You've let him off the hook in such a gracious manner that I find I can no longer tease him," said the Warden, shaking his head. "Remind me not to invite you to any of our fundraising dinners. "

"I'm sorry," she laughed. "I'll make it up to you by securing Adrahil's patronage. Who knows? Maybe the Keeper of the Keys will open his purse to you after his son-in-law has."

The Warden grinned. "Well, that would answer very well."

"Now I'm beginning to feel left out," Daeron complained, though his eyes sparkled. "I suppose I could scrape something together for you, Warden."

The Warden's eyebrows shot up into his hairline and he winked at Morwen. "I'll take that as a promise, my lord." They shook hands.

The peel of city bells tolling the hour startled Morwen. She hadn't been able to hear them inside the warehouse. More time had passed since they left the Houses than she realized. "I told Aranel that I would be back for supper."

"I had better take my leave too, before I promise anything else," Daeron quipped. "Allow me to see you home."

"Thank you," she said. "Good afternoon, Warden."

"Good afternoon, child. If you are as successful with the princes of Dol Amroth as you have been with Lord Daeron, I expect we'll break ground by this time next year."

…

The Warden chose to remain behind in the warehouse to speak with the gardeners there, so the cart belonging to the Houses remained for his use. Morwen didn't mind the walk, though the afternoon sun beat down on the unprotected streets. It always felt so much warmer in Minas Tirith than it did in her shaded valley.

In the lower circles, wagons and carts were permitted, carrying cargo and wares throughout the market streets. Pedestrians kept to the raised walks on either side of the broad lanes. They passed the Old Inn and taverns beyond the warehouses that lined the street closest to the first gate. Morwen enjoyed the brief moment of shade inside the gate leading toward the second circle.

"I'm glad we have a chance to talk alone, Lord Daeron."

His eyebrows lifted as he looked down at her. "Yes?"

"I want to apologize for last night. My friend and I did not treat you very well after our dance ended."

"Prince Thengel, you mean?" His voice lowered.

"Yes."

Daeron gave her a pinched smile. "Well, never mind that. Princes will have their way without regard to others. That is their privilege."

She couldn't quite approve of his attitude, but on reflection, it hadn't been wrong.

"And now you've promised the Warden a gift for the Houses when you clearly said you couldn't presently."

He laughed self-deprecatingly. "You shouldn't apologize for my weakness where pretty women are concerned. Besides, it's a happy chance I met you at the Houses. You see I have my own confession to make."

Morwen's heart beat a little faster. "A confession?"

"Yes. As soon as I heard your name announced last night I had to make your acquaintance, Lady Morwen."

"Why?"

"Because of ulterior motives, naturally," he said with a laugh. "I am a friend of your cousin's."

"I know," she replied. "Adrahil introduced us."

"I meant your other cousin. Halmir," he replied with amusement.

"Oh!" Morwen felt as if her entire body had plunged into an icy spring. For a moment, the street seemed to tilt. He reached for her arm.

He looked concerned. "Are you all right? Is it the heat?"

"I'm fine," she breathed. "Let's walk a little faster, please."

"Of course." But he didn't move. "I hope I didn't offend you by joking about ulterior motives."

"Lord Daeron, it's getting late," she insisted.

"I merely wished to say that I've heard that congratulations are in order and I wanted to wish you joy. After all, any friend of Halmir's…"

Morwen stared. "What do you mean?"

Daeron chuckled until he realized she wasn't sharing in the joke. "Good lord, it isn't a secret, is it?" he asked.

"Please tell me what you mean."

"Well," he ran his fingers through the back of his hair, looking ruffled. "Hal confided in me that you and he were soon to be married soon. I have it in writing - though it dates from many weeks ago – before he left for Lossarnach. I thought by now, surely…"

"As a friend, Lord Daeron, please, I must advise you to take anything Halmir says with a grain of salt."

Daeron blinked. Two pink patches appeared high on his cheeks. "Then he hasn't asked you yet? I'm terribly sorry. What a blunder." He laughed. "You'll pardon me, I hope."

"On the contrary, Halmir did ask," she said, growing irritated. "Sort of."

He looked puzzled. "But you said you were not engaged."

"I am not." Couldn't a man get it into his head that he might ask a woman and she might very well refuse him? Their sense of entitlement left her nearly vibrating with anger.

"So," said Daeron slowly, "you aren't considering it?"

Morwen felt icy shards in her stomach. Daeron had gone from impertinent to intrusive. What business was it of his? She didn't have to lay out the details of her life for him just because Halmir had no scruples.

"No."

Was it her imagination or did his hand on her arm feel like a vice?

"And the orchard then? I thought, well."

Oh no, Morwen groaned inwardly, realizing belatedly that this friend of Halmir's was so much more. Daeron hadn't specified what project he was funding during their conversation with the Warden, but it was now painfully obvious she'd fallen into the clutches of one of Halmir's investors. Now this investor was feeling her out for information. Did it worry him that she hadn't accepted Halmir? It ought to. She would not surrender to her cousin's plans and this man might well lose his money if Halmir didn't return it. But ought she to tell Lord Daeron that? No, it would be imprudent. And as great as her anger toward Halmir had grown, she didn't want to purposefully stir up trouble with his friends.

"Nothing has changed in that respect," she said as firmly as possible, despite her shaken nerves.

"Ah, I rely on report, I'm afraid. Halmir, I know, is a rabid advocate for the place. Did he tell you much of his scheme?"

She took a deep breath and answered calmly, "Yes."

"And what did you think?"

She smiled beatifically at him. "Lord Daeron, I thought you invited me to take a walk, not a business meeting?"

He smiled back but it didn't reach his eyes. "Of course. How stupid of me." He let go over her arm.

They passed through the third gate and it seemed that her companion had left any relish he felt for her company and conversation back in the second circle. Frankly, so had she. She felt herself trembling with agitation. Without stepping one foot in the city, Halmir had still managed to catch up with her. Now Morwen's thoughts bent only toward shaking off her cousin's foil. She watched his profile, trying to gauge his mood.

Daeron's eyes bored straight ahead. His lips had relaxed into a resting frown, but his nostrils flared now and again as if a passing thought grated his senses. She believed she could read his mind, especially if his plans and finances were tied up with Halmir. Morwen would have felt sorry for him if fear wasn't the prevailing emotion she had to contend with.

"Lord Daeron, if you have somewhere else you need to be, I can make it home on my own," she said. "Adrahil thinks I'm his helpless country cousin, but I will be fine."

Lord Daeron got a gleam in his eye. "Helpless country cousin?" He smoothed his tunic down. "Who would think that?"

"It is a foolish notion to think that country folk are helpless in the city, but I believe it's a general prejudice," she told him in a tone as light as she could make it. "Adrahil has never seen me wield an ax or he would feel better about my chances," she continued thoughtfully.

"An ax? You?" He looked her up and down, perhaps wondering where she kept the muscle for it.

She forced a smile. "There's a quaint saying in Imloth Melui that some babies play with rattles, but ours with axes."

"Really? How…um. Well, it's useful for clearing trees."

"Not mine," she said sweetly. "None of my trees are going anywhere."

He finally seemed to get the answer he had waiting for. "Lady Morwen, do you have a notion of when Halmir plans to return to Minas Tirith?" he asked with a calm that belied his interests.

"Not a notion in the world," she said airily. "What he does is no concern of mine."

"I see," Daeron said darkly.

Morwen felt certain that he did see and that gave her a sense of urgency to part company as soon as possible. To think she had thought him handsome! All he had to do was show a little interest in her direction for her to completely let down her guard. She had felt entirely charmed as soon as he'd mentioned her father's poetry. And she'd even thought he felt interested in her. Yet all the while Daeron had been circling her like a dog worrying about the bone its master had left on the table.

"Fool," she grumbled under her breath.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," she replied.

…

An opportunity to shake off Lord Daeron appeared unexpectedly across the street in the form of a stocky Rohirric warrior. He leaned against the storefront belonging to a leather merchant, his arms crossed over his chest. He was squinting at the sun reflecting off the Tower many circles above with a look of disapproving suspicion she had come to recognize.

"Oh!" she cried. "There's Cenhelm."

"What?" Daeron asked, looking around.

"Thank you for walking me this far. I'll just step across the way to meet him. No need to come along. I'll be all right now. Goodbye!"

She left Daeron standing bewildered on the curb while she dashed between carts to where Cenhelm waited, oblivious to her. He didn't notice her until she appeared right at his elbow. He startled when she spoke.

"Hello, Cenhelm."

Cenhelm cringed when he noticed her. He began to back away with his hands raised as if to ward her off. "Lady Morwen…"

"How nice to see you again." She looked across the street to see Daeron watching them. She slipped her hand around his elbow.

"Er…" Cenhelm's gaze dropped down to her hand then followed her eyes across the street. "Are you well?"

"I will be when that gentleman turns down the street. Ah. There. He's going."

Cenhelm kept looking over his own shoulder at the shop window behind them. He seemed uneasy, though Morwen thought maybe her own feelings were clouding her perception. She let go of his arm once Daeron was completely out of view.

"Good. He's gone. I'll just see myself home. Oh, by the way, Guthere is very well…"

The shop door opened. Cenhelm winced again.

"Cenhelm, who is this?" A large, generously bearded man of Rohirric look had just stepped out of the shop and joined them on the curb. He looked vaguely familiar to her eye but whenever she thought she recognized a feature or expression, it disappeared. And he scrutinized her with equal curiosity. "Well, Cenhelm?"

Cenhelm cleared his throat and said glumly, "Lady Morwen of Lossarnach, my lord."

"Now why does that sound familiar?"

"I told you," Cenhelm said. "We left Guthere in her care."

The man's piercing blue eyes sparked. "Ah! The lady of…" the man roared. Then he blinked. "Why, you must be her younger sister."

Cenhelm looked like he'd bitten a lemon.

Morwen felt herself blushing under this man's skeptical gaze. "I have no sisters, sir. I am the lady of Bar-en-Ferin."

"You mean you run that entire plantation? On your own? At your age?"

Morwen concealed clenched fists in her skirts, bristling at the skepticism in his voice. "Of course. It's hard work better suited to the young," she answered with a hint of steel in her voice. Why was it such a surprise to everyone? "And you are?"

"Forgive me, Lady Morwen. This is Marshal Oswin." Cenhelm paused. "Prince Thengel's uncle and the chief chancellor to the King of the Mark of Rohan, Marshal of Eastmark, and chieftain of Aldburg."

"Oh." Morwen bit the inside of her cheek before she could put her foot in her mouth again.

Oswin bowed deeply. Morwen reciprocated with a faint curtsy. She understood now why he had looked a touch familiar. He was Thengel's relation.

"My nephew was vague about his benefactress," Marshal Oswin said accusingly. "In fact, I hadn't heard about you at all until Thengel fell in with that comrade of his - Abel?"

"Adan. Yes, Prince Thengel was kind enough to recruit Adan to help me after he left."

"He did, did he?" The Marshal puffed out his chest. "Well. That's gratitude for you."

"Yes," she answered slowly. "I'm pleased to meet you, Marshal, but I'm afraid I must get on. My cousins expected me half an hour ago."

"Not on your own?" said the Marshal, looking around for someone who looked like a possible companion.

"Of course," she replied stoutly. "It's not much farther to the sixth circle."

"No, it won't do, Lady Morwen. We're for the sixth circle as well. Allow two old men the pleasure of walking a beautiful young woman home," he said with heavily accented gallantry. "You can tell us more about how Guthere gets on."

Cenhelm's expression seemed to beg her to humor the man. There was something odd about his behavior, but she did need to speak to someone about Guthere eventually. Who better than the Marshal? Morwen gave in. Cenhelm fell behind while the Marshal insisted she take his arm.

"He is healing well," she said, as they started down the street. "I've noticed his energy returning and his headaches have improved - as has his appetite. Lately he's been on a campaign to convert the cook to Rohirric dishes."

"Poor you," the Marshal grunted. "Bland fare, that."

"We had a good stew but the bread was worrisome," she confessed.

"You could brick a house with our bread," Oswin said proudly. "Second heartiest bread only to dwarf bread, so I hear."

Morwen smiled. Oswin reminded her a little of Guthere and that made her feel more comfortable. "That's what he said."

"The trick, you see, is to put it at the bottom of a deep bowl, then ladle the stew on top of it. That softens it down to a nice mush." He eyed her warily. "I don't suppose ladies like you eat mush."

Morwen bit the inside of cheek. What a turn the day had taken. She felt like laughing. "I think we may be converted if Guthere remains much longer."

Marshal Oswin beamed. "That's fine, that's fine. Nothing like hearty food to put meat on your bones."

"Since I've fallen in with you, I hope you won't think I'm impertinent," she said. "But I wondered, Marshal, about the terms of Guthere's service to Prince Thengel."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean when his service to the prince ends, is he free to stay in Gondor or must he return to Rohan?"

If Marshal Oswin seemed surprised by this question, his beard masked it. "It's irregular. None of my men has ever expressed a wish to stay in Gondor, have they Cenhelm?"

"But why?" Cenhelm asked, not masking his surprise one jot.

"I think he and my cook have an understanding."

Cenhelm muttered a string of plosive sounding words in Rohirric under his breath.

"An understanding?" Oswin asked, not grasping the subtext.

Cenhelm spoke to him in Rohirric.

Oswin's eyebrows grew stormy. "Idle fool." Then his expression cleared. "Of course, if a certain event were to occur, I don't see why something couldn't be arranged."

"What event?" Morwen asked.

"Well," Oswin hesitated. "It has been quite some time since Fengel King's counselors have considered the terms of service for Thengel's honor guard. It might be time to revisit them. You know how things change." He looked at her. "Sometimes very quickly."

Yes, she did know.

They passed into the sixth circle. Near the stables golden-headed riders greeted Oswin in their own tongue. They watched her with stern interest and so she bowed her head in greeting.

"Gōd ǣfen."

They all gaped. Cenhelm pinched his nose.

"Did I say it wrong?" she asked, blushing as they passed by the stunned Rohirrim.

"No," Oswin said slowly. "You said it well. That is the surprise. In Gondor, we must speak your language. No one has learned ours."

"Guthere taught us a few words."

When they came within view of Adrahil's home, she raised her free arm and waved to the porter who had stepped out of the gate to greet a courier.

"Ah, there you are, my lady," the porter called. "My mistress was beginning to worry."

Oswin's bushy eyebrows scudded upwards like clouds in a gust. "Is this where you live?"

Morwen had begun to cross the street again. "It's my cousin's home, but I always stay here when I visit Minas Tirith."

"You mean to say that your cousin is Prince Angelimir of Dol Amroth? Well! I won't keep you," he said, although he hadn't released her arm. "Go on in. I'll send Thengel to give our respects to the young Prince and his bride some time, shall I? You would like that?"

"We would all like that."

"You'd like to see him again. You've become good friends, I see," Oswin continued. "Perhaps he could bring Wynflaed, his sister, to meet you." Behind them, Cenhelm choked. "She doesn't know many folk in the city."

Morwen slipped her arm out from under the Marshal's. "Yes, of course. I'm curious to meet Wynflaed." Would she bring her sword?

Oswin smiled magnanimously. "Good, good."

…

Morwen slipped into Aranel's sitting room and slumped against the wall beside the door. The day caught up with her there and she felt tired, hot, and sticky. Aranel glanced up from a card she held in her hand. She looked concerned by Morwen's appearance.

"There you are. Did you have a nice visit with the Warden?" she asked calmly.

Morwen exhaled. "No. I mean, yes. I always like to see the Warden."

"You look exhausted. Sit down and tell me all about it."

Morwen did as she was told, sitting beside Aranel on the couch.

"You were gone for a very long time."

"We went down to the first circle so the Warden could show me a project my father agreed to help with. Lord Daeron was there too."

Aranel looked surprised. "Daeron? You danced with him last night, didn't you?"

Morwen nodded.

"What do you think of him?"

"I liked him very much until I found out he's Halmir's friend." She covered her face with a cushion then let it drop into her lap. "So, now there's a face to at least one of his investors."

Aranel's eyes rounded with interest and worry. "How did you learn this?"

"He told me himself," she said, thrusting the pillow outward. "He congratulated me on my engagement!"

Aranel looked coolly out the window. "Someone is spreading rumors, I see. Perhaps Halmir himself? You weren't alone with Daeron, were you?"

"Not for long. I found Cenhelm nearby and used that as a pretext to part ways."

"Cenhelm?"

"He's the captain of Prince Thengel's honor guard. He and Marshal Oswin - Thengel's uncle - were in the first circle on some business. I came home with them."

Aranel studied Morwen. "Prince Thengel and his people are very obliging to you."

"He is my friend."

"Well, I wonder. It is your business, Morwen. But as one woman to another, I will advise you to consider the implications of allowing him to get caught up in your affairs. You might find events running off without you." Then she handed Morwen the card. "You and I are to have a visitor from one of Prince Thengel's handlers."

Lady Idhren's name was inscribed on the card.

...

Oswin turned from the gate and began to retrace his steps toward his nephew's home. Cenhelm stumped behind him, looking dourly at the ground.

"She's got a bit of iron in her, that girl."

"Yes, my lord."

Oswin turned a hawk's eye his companion. "You've withheld valuable information from me, Cenhelm."

Cenhelm looked offended. "My reports have been accurate and on topic, Marshal," he groused. "I'm a guard, not a gossip."

"What are Thengel's feelings for that woman, do you think?"

"You must ask Prince Thengel yourself, Marshal."

"Ask him? I have half a mind to tell him! So I shall." He stroked his beard.

"That method has always worked well on the Prince in the past," Cenhelm remarked.

"Well. Hm." Oswin went over the encounter in his mind. "A very pretty, charming, young woman. More of a chick than a hen, but no matter. She runs her own plantation. Quite impressive. And related to Dol Amroth to boot. Why did she never make it onto any of Lady Idhren's lists?"

Cenhelm didn't answer.

"Say, what is her family situation at home?"

Cenhelm gritted his teeth, but then reluctantly said, "Both her parents are dead. She has no brothers or sister."

Oswin rubbed his hands together. "Better and better! No one to interfere, the negotiations will be simple."

"Consider her cousins, my lord."

Oswin snorted. Cousins? No fear. "I must find Wynflaed. Where's she gone today?"

"Wherever she wants, sir."

"Come. It's time to create our strategy. I'll brief Wynflaed later."

"Where are we going, Marshal?"

"To see the Steward!"

Cenhelm thought of the leagues of empty grassland of his homeland. He wished he were in a hole covered by a rock in the middle of it rather than trying to serve two man with sundered purposes. Loyalty had already taken several years off his life this spring alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unwieldy Cast of Characters:
> 
> Adan: Lossarnach soldier, friend of Thengel
> 
> Adrahil: Prince of Dol Amroth, Morwen's cousin
> 
> Angelimir: ruling Prince of Dol Amroth, Adrahil's father
> 
> Aranel: Conveniently asthmatic princess of Dol Amroth, Adrahil's wife
> 
> Beldir: Morwen's overseer
> 
> Belehir: Keeper of the Keys of Gondor (mayor), Aranel's father
> 
> Cenhelm: Captain of Thengel's honor guard, man of Rohan
> 
> Daeron: Lord from Lebennin, suspiciously handsome person
> 
> Denethor: son of Ecthelion, future Steward
> 
> Dineth: Aranel's maidservant
> 
> Ecthelion: Captain-General of Gondor, future Steward, friend of Thengel's
> 
> Egil: Deputy sent from King Bard of Esgaroth
> 
> Eriston: Thengel's manservant
> 
> Fengel: King of Rohan, Thengel's father, greedy britches
> 
> Ferneth: Lady of Lossarnach, Hardang's widow
> 
> Forlong: Hardang's infant son
> 
> Frár: Dwarf constituent from Erebor
> 
> Fritha: Thengel's eldest sister
> 
> Gildis: Morwen's housekeeper
> 
> Gladhon: Man of Gondor, soldier serving in Thengel's honor guard
> 
> Gundor: Morwen's servant, Hareth's son
> 
> H's of Lossarnach: Hador, Haldad, Hangelimir, Hathol, o my
> 
> Halmir: Morwen's useless cousin
> 
> Hardang: Morwen's deceased cousin
> 
> Hareth: Morwen's cook
> 
> Hirwen: Morwen's mother
> 
> Hundor: Morwen's other useless cousin
> 
> Ioneth: Morwen's servant
> 
> Midhel: local fiber artist, dyer, laundress, etc.
> 
> Morwen: The reason we're here today
> 
> Nanneth: local healer in Imloth Melui, copious grandchildren
> 
> Oswin: Thengel's uncle, a Marshal of the Mark of Rohan
> 
> Pengoloth: Master of the Arts in the Archives of Minas Tirith
> 
> Randir: Morwen's father
> 
> Rían: wife of the Keeper of the Keys of Minas Tirith, Aranel's mother
> 
> Rurik: deputy of King Bard of Esgaroth
> 
> Teitherion: artist, goat enthusiast
> 
> Thengel: the other reason we're here, also crown Prince of Rohan in exile
> 
> Thunor: mythic Northman who returns from wandering Lothlorien to find his wife beset by suitors
> 
> Thurston: man of Rohan, Thengel's honor guard
> 
> Turgon: Ruling Steward of Gondor, father of Ecthelion, fostered Thengel
> 
> Warden of the Houses of Healing: exactly what it says on the tin
> 
> Wynflaed: Thengel's other sister, a shieldmaiden of Rohan
> 
> Wynlaf: Queen of Rohan, Thengel's mother


	25. Before the Steward's Chair

The door-wardens allowed Thengel to pass without comment into the cool shadows that always dwelled within the king's hall. The chamberlain met him as he entered the paved passage just as he had the day before to turn Thengel away. Turgon had not been well enough to sit in his chair and would not, therefore, see him.

As Turgon had never once been ill in Thengel's twenty-year sojourn, he found this not a little suspicious. So instead of waiting for a summons, he decided to make a second attempt. If the Steward's chair remained empty today, he'd make a visit to the sick bed. He knew any further delay only played into Halmir's plans.

"Will Lord Turgon see me today?" he asked, already passing the chamberlain on the threshold. His voice and footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness of the corridor.

The man took skipping steps to keep up with the prince. "Yes, my lord. I have been instructed to send you through immediately."

Thengel waved the chamberlain off. "Thank you. I'll see myself in."

Thengel made short work of the passage and barely registered the cool touch of metal on his hand as he pushed through the tall doors leading into the throne room. As he walked between bright shafts of light down the line of kings rendered in stone, he tried not to feel the weight of their marble scrutiny on his back. It had been this way whenever he entered the throne room since he was a boy freshly arrived in Minas Tirith. The kings looked offended that he should walk under their stony noses with so much guilt on his shoulders. An exile.

He didn't know why these representations of long dead kings should take it so personally that he had once threatened bodily violence to another ruler and had been summarily foisted onto their country because of it. They didn't know Fengel King. Otherwise they'd really stick their noses in the air.

"I began to think this day would never come."

Thengel's thoughts jumped to the present. The voice came from the tall, gray man mounted on the Steward's hard, unadorned chair. The white rod of the Stewards rested across his lap. The gold nob glinted whenever it caught the sunlight, which was rare. Beyond the stone chair, steps rose to the high, empty throne and the crownlike canopy. It cast a long shadow. Thengel approached faster, forgetting the kings and their judgment. Death had found them long ago.

Thengel bowed. "What day is that, Lord Turgon?" he asked. His voice echoed through the cavernous space beneath the gold vaulting.

"The day Thengel the Renowned finally put in an appearance on the month of his birth. Should I congratulate you?"

Thengel pressed his lips into a thin, hard line. His foster-father had a gift for irony, which had taken years of cultivation for the plainspoken firebrand to appreciate, let alone interpret.

"How is that, my lord?" he asked.

Steward Turgon studied Thengel through heavily lidded eyes. "Are you not here to announce a betrothal? I did not think you would brave the streets for any other reason."

Thengel stopped before the dais. "No. My uncle's plans have changed this year. I thought you were aware."

Turgon tapped his armrests impatiently. "Not betrothed? How interesting. Reports are circulating that you were seen traversing the streets with your new intended - or is my daughter-in-law not to be trusted?"

Idhren! Thengel might have known.

"I see your repose yesterday allowed you to catch up on idle reports," Thengel said dryly.

"Indeed. And I am feeling much recovered. Thank you for your concern," Turgon groused. "Well? What do you have to say?"

Thengel approached the chair and laid his hand on the armrest. "Allow me to summarily contradict and deny any such matter. Rather, I braved the streets to ask a question."

Turgon harrumphed in ill humor. "I am not an archivist, but you may try me."

Thengel nodded his thanks. "It was brought to my attention that you may have a future audience with Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth. Forgive me for taking advantage of my position in your household to expedite an urgent matter on his family's behalf."

Turgon frowned, but did not outwardly object. "What is this family matter?"

"Lord Randir of Lossarnach served you once, did he not?"

Turgon coughed. "Randir? I did not know you were acquainted with him. He had already abandoned me by the time you arrived."

"I have never met him," Thengel replied. "But I know he associated with you during his lifetime."

The Steward pretended to think. Then he gave Thengel a wry look. "He died before he could finish a genealogy of my mother's line, which greatly inconvenienced me and my posterity – especially since he was doing all those literary favors for Angelimir. Hmph. He was an able orator and scribe in my father's house and served me for a good many years. They called him Randir of Belfalas in those days, until he married Hirwen and she spirited him off to Lossarnach. She stole him right out of my archive. Not the usual place to find husbands, but there's no accounting for taste."

Thengel said, "Morwen, his daughter, still resides in Lossarnach."

Turgon pursed his lips in thought. "The girl comes from a noble line as kin to the princes of Dol Amroth. You cannot fault her pedigree, though her wealth, such as it is, is tied up in land, I understand."

"Yes," said Thengel with a hint of impatience. He wasn't sure which of them was steering the conversation. "Your knowledge of your subjects is far-reaching."

Turgon tapped the armrest again. "I had a moment of study this morning."

Thengel waited with a semblance of patience.

"It is no secret that the woman you deposited on Prince Adrahil's doorstep the other night happened to be Randir's kinswoman. Servants are useful for interesting trivia of that nature." Turgon fixed his keen eyes on Thengel. "As are daughters-in-law."

Thengel swallowed. This wasn't the direction he expected the conversation to go and he certainly hadn't considered how an innocent favor would lead to so much ridiculous speculation.

"Idhren did not tell you I was betrothed."

"Not in so many words, but she looks on it as quite settled after we cobbled together what is known about this young woman." Turgon frowned. "Not a bad catch."

"The rumors are only that, rumors."

"Then why are we discussing this girl if you aren't engaged to marry her? What is she to you?"

The Steward, Thengel knew, operated under a constant level of irritation. It gave the old man momentum. Thengel didn't mind Turgon's frankness, but knew better than to wear out his welcome. He considered how to best lay out his explanation.

"I am in Lady Morwen's debt."

Turgon scowled. "In debt, sir?"

"It is a debt of honor. I led a hunting party on Lady Morwen's estate some weeks ago. My man was injured and she undertook his care and our hospitality. As you know, her estate Bar-en-Ferin was leased to her father, an informal agreement between relatives, which Lord Hardang had extended to Morwen. When he died in your service eight weeks ago valiantly defending Ecthelion's garrison against a siege of orcs, his brother decided to renege."

"What does the brother have to do with it?"

"His brother, Halmir, took his place as regent until Hardang's heir comes of age."

Turgon's brows furrowed while he thought. "Did he? I hadn't heard anything official. And what has this to do with the young woman?"

"While a guest in Lady Morwen's house, Halmir used the informality of the tenement to bully the lady toward accepting his suit."

Something seemed to switch in Turgon's mind. "He means to marry her?"

"Yes."

"Popular young woman." Turgon held his hands up. "It seems a straightforward business. What is your question?"

"Is this behavior condoned in Gondor?"

"What behavior? The movement of property through marriage?"

"Rapacity, my lord."

Turgon's expression darkened and his voice came as a low rumble of thunder. "What do you mean?"

"Halmir installed himself in Imloth Melui and has threatened to strip her of the land if she should refuse to marry him," he told Turgon, allowing frustration to color his voice. "It's the basest coercion."

"No, no, he cannot force her to marry. This is Gondor not Harad. A woman's free consent is of utmost importance." The Steward leaned deeply into his chair and closed his eyes. "He might persuade her, however. Men often must."

Thengel glowered. "And this method of persuasion is acceptable?"

"Methods vary," was all the Steward would say.

Thengel stepped back from the chair and crossed his arms as if to contain his rising temper. He thought he might encounter indifference, but flippancy? He watched Turgon's stonelike expression and thought the man looked asleep.

"In my country, a man who would rob a woman of her livelihood for any reason would be publicly disgraced and cut off from the community. But it has been brought to my attention that not only is this behavior acceptable, but it is protected by law."

"Protected how?" Turgon asked.

"Protected because he has rights but the law hasn't granted her any."

Turgon's eyes flashed open. "She has a contract?"

Thengel deflated. "No."

"My son, I see where this is going," Turgon said with paternal calm. "But you understand that a tenant's complaint over the loss of a verbal agreement cannot stand in the Steward's court."

"But surely the Steward could influence a lord to honor the verbal agreement. Hardang had, up to his death, treated the estate as Morwen's right. Who else will hold Halmir accountable for disregarding his brother's acts if you won't?"

Turgon gave him a disapproving look. "There is nothing to work on. It is his word against hers. Thengel, you are old enough and learned enough to know better - especially as the future king of Rohan. You aren't an idealistic princeling anymore. If I interfere in one fief's internal affairs," he lifted the rod reverently, "abuse my authority - I would have a host of barons crying tyrant. I cannot interfere with a man for not breaking the law and choosing where and with whom to grant his manors."

"But he is using the law to his advantage to force her—"

Turgon raised his stick higher, silencing Thengel. "This Halmir cannot force the young woman to do anything except to accept one consequence over another. She can marry him and keep the land or refuse him and shift for herself elsewhere."

Thengel did know that, but found the answer unsatisfactory. He bowed sharply as he felt the hot tide of anger creeping over him.

"Pardon me, lord. I've troubled your solitude long enough. I will leave you."

Turgon cleared his throat. "Just a moment, if you please," he said. "Before you run off in a fit of spleen…" Thengel tried to protest, but the rod of judgment appeared again. "…As is your habit to this day despite your advancing years, let me remind you of my place in the grand scheme of Gondor."

Thengel held his ground and forced himself to listen.

"My province extends to the wellbeing of the realm-at-large in the absence of the king, not with the individual management of every farm in this benighted country. That is the province of the Gondor's barons and their deputies. If this lady's romantic entanglements somehow interfered with our hedge of protection to the east and south, that might be another matter."

Thengel eyes kindled. "Odd you should say so, my lord. As it happens, the gentleman and his brother did show a certain disgust for service in Captain Ecthelion's army, despite the tribute of knights due to the throne."

Turgon seemed to spark on the new information Thengel offered as fuel. "Too good for Gondor, are they?"

"Five score axemen are camped on Lady Morwen's lawn at this moment, doing nothing but eat and aggravate the household."

"A hundred axemen?" Turgon's eyes could have boiled the rapscallions alive with his eyes if only they were present. "Idle?"

"Give or take, that's an éored," Thengel mused as he brushed dust off his sleeve. "A waste after what we've learned from Egil and Frár. Those axes could be put to use splitting orc necks instead of rusting in the open air."

Turgon sat, puckered in silence and a darkening mood. Finally, he seemed to get the better of himself and said, "These young men don't know what they owe to the throne. I shall see that this is remedied." Turgon slashed the air with his finger. "But don't suppose, Thengel, that you can annoy me into acting for the young woman. This waste of fighting men is one matter, but the lease is another. I cannot interfere directly on the lady's behalf."

Thengel choked down his frustration. "You could find a better use for the men, at least. Halmir might be less persuasive without his henchmen."

"That is for Ecthelion to decide."

"What about Halmir's peers? Can he risk the disgust of the princes and lords of other fiefs? Prince Angelimir won't be best pleased to find his kinswoman displaced."

Turgon considered this point with a sour expression. "Lossarnach is hedged behind the protection of Minas Tirith, not exposed to our enemies like Belfalas or Lebennin. Its lord can afford to ruffle feathers. With our dependence on produce and herbs supplying the city and Ecthelion's forces, we need Lossarnach's favor more than he needs ours." His voice was sharp and grim. "Which of course I am telling you in strict confidence."

"There has to be something you can do," Thengel pleaded. "Randir was your friend."

"My authority as Steward has its limits within the law, Thengel, which friendship does not override," he said with some gravitas as he rose from his chair and descended the step. His stick sent staccato claps echoing down the marble room. "We exist because of the law, not the other way around. Her father was a good friend of mine, but not entirely practical. I cannot act for her if he didn't."

Thengel searched Turgon's face but found nothing there to work on. "In Rohan the community exists because of its king. He unites them, protects them, provides common space, and he guides them," he said. "Or he should. Otherwise what's the point of him?"

Turgon's eyebrows twitched noticeably. "Certainly, a king might do more," he sniffed. "Or perhaps a certain hotspur lieutenant with diplomatic immunity acting independently of his lord."

Thengel blinked. "Pardon?"

Turgon laid a hand on Thengel's shoulder. He had a strong grasp for an elderly man. "If Hotspur should interfere with said regent, well what of it? I speak as you foster-father, you understand, and therefore not on the record."

Thengel's eyes lit up as Turgon's words sunk in. The Steward raised a wizened finger. "I'm not sanctioning anything, mind. But if I were a young…well, youngish man determined not to mind his own business, I might consider a way to persuade the lord away from persuading the lady, if you understand me."

"Persuade?"

Turgon grinned crookedly. "Methods vary."

Thengel stood silent, lost in thought as possibilities presented themselves while Turgon resumed his seat. The Steward had handed him a wild card and yet he knew that the Steward's grace had its limits. So far, Thengel had managed to live within that circle of grace all the years he had dwelled in Gondor, despite moments of spleen and recklessness. It would be a simple matter to overstep the bounds, but less simple to return. A delicate matter.

"Incidentally," said Turgon, breaking into Thengel's thoughts. "Why the interest in this lady's misfortunes?"

Thengel turned reticent. "Her story reminds me of my own and I pity her."

"Pity?" Turgon looked like he had tasted vinegar. "You interrupted my brief solitude for pity?"

Thengel gave him a blank look. "Is there a more satisfactory motive, father?"

"There is," Turgon replied. "And one method that neither of us has mentioned to any avail."

"What method?"

"Marry her yourself if you're going to stick your oar in her business," The Steward groused with a crack of his stick on the marble floor.

Thengel cringed as the sound knocked his eardrums. "We will not discuss that please."

"You may not wish to discuss it, but all of Minas Tirith is.

"What would that solve? Halmir would still claim the land. That's all she wants."

"Yes, but by the Valar, it would shut up those irritating-and-highly-official dossiers from your uncle - not to mention the - I don't know what you would call it other than a sortie of camp followers each spring! I can't abide to hear tell of every eligible Æthelthryth from Aldburg to Isengard who loves the color green and long rides on the Wold while you hide out in some remote corner of my kingdom."

Thengel cleared his throat. "There aren't any women west of Isen, my lord, except among the Dunlendings. They are reputed to be…haggish."

Lord Turgon rested the rod across his knees. "You are growing tedious, my son."

Thengel bowed. "Forgive me, father." Then rising, "Before I go, allow me to clarify. I have your leave to interfere?"

Turgon pursed his lips. Then he said, "Allow an old statesman to rephrase - in fact, to borrow a line from your kinsman, 'The king does not permit brawls in his house…but men are freer outside.'"

For the first time, Thengel grinned. "Ah. I can hardly gainsay Helm Hammerhand."

"The man had a talent for certain turns of phrase one can appreciate," Turgon replied. "I trust you can take the hint."

"I'll do my best."

Thengel retreated from the throne room, his mind already turning over possible plans. He had permission, now he needed inspiration.

…

Turgon frowned at his adoptive son's back until it disappeared behind the closed doors of his - that is, the king's hall. He rolled his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling, leisurely, as he enjoyed the few moments of unfiltered expression allowed to him in these days of diplomacy. It felt good, like stretching after a long sleep.

A side door belonging to the Steward's antechamber opened on nearly silent hinges, but Turgon heard it. Marshal Oswin entered from where he had been listening as best he could from within.

"Are you satisfied?" Turgon asked.

"Perfectly. From what I could hear. That was a good touch at the end, Lord Steward, reciting Helm Hammerhand. I congratulate you."

Turgon sniffed. "I thought so myself."

"So, did he admit to being in love with the girl?"

"Marshal, not in so many words, but if your nephew isn't hooked then I'm an orc," Turgon muttered. "What else would induce a man to pick a fight he's very likely to lose?"

The graven kings seemed to agree, but Oswin bristled.

"Lose? The sons of Eorl do not lose. Especially not to paltry little lordling brutes."

Turgon looked on Fengel's chancellor with some surprise. "Mark my words, Marshal, he will have to lose if he's to make this woman a princess of Rohan."

Oswin tucked his thumbs into his belt. "Well, but…"

"How else will she willingly leave when she is so determined to keep the property? Have you thought on that?"

Oswin glowered at the one broken spoke in the wheel of his new plan. He hadn't counted on the girl digging in her heels. She had seemed so obliging yesterday.

"Why wouldn't she want to leave? What's wrong with the Riddermark, I ask you?"

Turgon pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nothing, Marshal. There's nothing wrong with Rohan. We are all very fond of Rohan. Only it's a very long way away. I said Thengel wants her. We do not know the lady's feelings. She may not like him as much as he likes her."

"Not like him?" Oswin stormed. "What's wrong with him?"

"Calm yourself, Marshal Oswin. I only said we do not yet know one way or the other. I can see plain as plain that Thengel doesn't know either or he wouldn't refuse to speak of it. Perhaps he hasn't admitted it to himself either. But it is clear she doesn't mind his company. Should she share his feelings, well, that would simplify the matter. Until then, circumstances might help persuade her to think favorably on a change of scenery."

"How could she help it? A handsome, strapping warrior like that with all his own teeth in his head? And Thengel the future king of the Mark? She'll have no small share of the treasure and the run of Meduseld. And such horses as she's never seen the like in this country." Oswin began pacing the floor at the Steward's feet, arms akimbo with his thumbs still in his belt. Emotions were messy, uncooperative things. "What is the matter with these Gondorian women? Is she waiting for some elven sorcerer to make her a better offer?"

"When you paint such a picture one can hardly wonder, my friend," Turgon answered dryly. "Roll out the wedding announcements, by all means."

"Good. Excellent." Oswin stroked his beard as he congratulated himself on a job nearly well done. "I shall put Wynflaed on it immediately."

Turgon raised a gnarled finger. "That is precisely what you must not do," he replied. "My daughter-in-law warned against it and I agree with her."

Oswin stopped stroking his beard and glowered. "What? But my nephew is a stubborn idiot."

"I am well aware."

Oswin began to pace again. "He'll never come around on his own. Someone has to work on the girl. It'll be another twenty years if left to his own devices."

"Patience, Marshal." Turgon tapped his nose.

"The Rohirrim don't have much of that in ready supply."

"Well I know it," said Turgon tartly. "Hotspur was in my charge these last twenty years, you will recall."

Oswin bristled at this reminder, but wisely held his tongue.

"Thengel will make himself indispensible to the young woman all on his own if we leave him be. Mark my words — I'll be sure to remind you of them at the wedding next year."

"Next year? Why not next month?" Oswin said with a wave of his hand.

Turgon massaged his wrinkly forehead. "Because he hasn't asked her yet, that's why. These things take time. There are formalities. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We haven't even discussed her dowry yet."

"Has she got one?"

"On that score, you'll find Gondor will remember Thengel's service with a good deal of generosity. But that is neither here nor there yet. The engagement may take time to come about and then there will be preparations to consider."

"When a thing needs doing, get it done. We don't share your customs. Long engagements only makes young people fiddly."

Fiddly? Turgon winced, as if such youthful impetuosity had long passed from his memory. "When the time comes, I am sure we can negotiate the length of engagement down to say, nine months."

"Three months."

Turgon struck the floor with his stick. "Three months! Don't be absurd." Nobody could live at that speed!

"Thengel's no spring chicken, you know. And if you hadn't allowed him to keep running around in the woods this might have been taken care of long ago."

Turgon frowned. Oswin and he agreed on that point, at least, though it little pleased the Steward to admit how they had taken advantage of receiving the heir or Rohan.

"All right. Six months. But no less! You don't want people's tongues wagging."

Oswin shrugged. "Let them wag. Nobody in Rohan will understand them anyway."

As the Marshal retreated, Turgon allowed himself the pleasure of a long sigh. He was getting too old. If it wasn't for the regard he felt for his old friend Randir, he would hide in his tower and make Ecthelion deal with this. But it was too delicate a situation for his martial-minded scamp of a son.

That he had purposefully deceived Thengel was a stroke of genius he couldn't trust to Ecthelion. He certainly intended to interfere on the lady's behalf, but not in the way Thengel thought he should. Randir, loved by all, had been an excellent scholar but rather absentminded in practical matters. This union was exactly what Turgon would like to see for his old friend's daughter. She might not know that the Steward kept her in his sights since her father's passing, but he had. And he preferred to keep her in the dark and work by proxy.

What a windfall that Thengel had come across Morwen and would bear the brunt of the hard work of securing Morwen's future. Very convenient. It would save Turgon the trouble and repay him for raising and equipping the heir of Rohan.

Not that he would confess this motivation to Marshal Oswin, either. Let the man think that this union worked all in Rohan's favor. They were a suspicious lot, the Rohirrim.

And if the union worked out in Gondor's favor on a diplomatic level, so be it. Turgon could satisfy his personal motives and justify himself to his son. Everything satisfied him. And Idhren would make sure all the pieces were in the right place.

Only the princes of Dol Amroth remained. The last obstacle. Turgon felt he could persuade Prince Adrahil to cooperate.


	26. Conspirators

Thengel stepped out into the light of day, heart pumping with elation. He had permission to interfere on Morwen's behalf. He had…

What did he actually have?

He deflated before he reached the White Tree. Nothing had materially changed since he entered the Steward's hall. This only, he now had a guarantee that Turgon would turn a blind eye to whatever Thengel chose to do. Within reason. How was he supposed to face Morwen with the news that the Steward wouldn't challenge Halmir's actions and the only consolation he had to offer was his promise to help?

Help how? Persuade the lord from persuading the lady. Fine. But how to persuade five score other men at the same time? It always came back to numbers. Could he arrive with five score of his own men? Sure. Yet he doubted Turgon would ignore a small-scale invasion of Lossarnach and what would be the end result? A few bloody noses would be the result at best, along with the attention of the entire country drawn to Imloth Melui. At worst? A full out brawl would ensue with more than one broken head and the Steward's extreme displeasure. And it would give the acting Lord of Lossarnach a legal complaint against him. It didn't seem worth the risk just to oust two weevils from the bran.

At the bottom of the citadel gate, Thengel looked right and left. One way would take him to the house of the Princes of Dol Amroth where Morwen no doubt waited for news. He could imagine the sorrow on her face as he explained the situation.

Thengel didn't consider himself a coward, per se, but he took the other way.

…

He walked the city till the noon bells turned him at last toward home. Hunger and the realization that nothing would come to him in the crowded streets were the main inducement. Inspiration, in its aggravating manner, would come once he'd turned his mind away from the matter.

Wynflaed sat polishing her knives alone in the library when Thengel arrived home. She looked up when he entered.

"You're covered in dust. Where've you been?" she muttered, eyeing his good clothes with distaste.

"I'm just back from the citadel. Sort of. I went for a walk."

Wynflaed grunted in reply.

"What happened to you?" he asked. She had a bandage around her forearm.

"Oswin distracted me during sparring practice yesterday. Ecthelion paid me out for a similar mistake he made a few weeks ago." She looked up. "That master from the Archives was here looking for you while you were out."

Thengel blinked, trying to recall if he'd made an appointment that he'd forgotten about. "Pengoloth?"

She nodded.

Thengel sat down but quickly stood up again. He looked out the window, but didn't know why. He felt unfocused and not himself. It didn't help that Wynflaed had chosen to scrutinize him in that way of hers.

"I forgot about him. He's selling me a painting," he explained.

"A painting. See, I knew it wasn't important, so I told him to go away." She stabbed the air with her knife in the direction of the courtyard.

Thengel frowned at her. "You dismissed a master of the Archives like an errand boy?"

She shrugged. "He smelled bad. I didn't want him sitting around all morning."

"It's only varnish," he said dryly, already mentally constructing the lengthy letter of apology he'd have to write later. "And you're getting oil all over the table."

Wynflaed glanced down at the mess she'd made. "That's what tables are for."

"Not a good table like that," he said half-heartedly.

"If it was a bad table, I wouldn't use it."

He sighed. "Nevermind, Wynflaed."

Thengel paced up and down the room, forgetting about his sister and Pengoloth. He should have gone straight to Adrahil's where he knew Morwen was waiting for news, but he didn't know what to tell her. There wasn't any sense in confirming the Steward's stance if he didn't have anything else to offer by way of a concrete plan. It was like making the oath of Eorl without any weapons to give it teeth.

"You have too much energy," Wynflaed grumbled. "Go for a ride."

"I can't. I need to think."

Wynflaed grimaced. "How unpleasant for you." She watched him tread the length of the room a few times, then said, "You had business in the citadel?"

Thengel nodded. "With the Steward, yes."

She surveyed him through hooded eyes. "Was Oswin there too?"

The skin on the back of his neck suddenly began to crawl and he stopped pacing. Why would he be with Oswin when Thengel's clear mode of operation was to avoid his uncle.

"No, why?"

Wynflaed shrugged carelessly, but her lips were thin and her frown unusually severe. She was naturally cross as long as he could remember, but this felt different. Then he wanted to kick himself for not noticing sooner. Since when had Wynflaed ever sat around the library alone since he arrived? Never.

"What's the matter?" he said. "You aren't with Idhren and you aren't with Oswin."

"So?"

He walked around the couch to face her. "So, what's going on?"

She wiped her oily fingers on a cloth before throwing it back down on the table. "We've had a difference of opinion."

"Is that all?" he snorted. "Oswin and I always have differences of opinion."

Wynflaed scowled at him.

"All right. Tell me."

"I quit." She smiled grimly and his skin crawled again.

"You…quit." He regarded her silently, looking for a hint that she was teasing him. She returned the scrutiny. "Oh. You mean with your little project? So I'm not to be married off to the likes of Lady Iarwen?"

"That's right," she drawled. "You're off the hook as far as I'm concerned. Die alone and heirless for all I care."

Thengel blinked. "Really. I guess you're tired of Idhren leading you around in circles."

Wynflaed surprised him by spitting. "Nobody's going in circles anymore," she said bitterly. "They've scented blood."

Thengel crossed his arms as she managed to destroy whatever relief he felt about her giving up her appointed task. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it."

Thengel's stomach turned sour as he remembered Turgon mentioning rumors. He sat down across from Wynflaed in the armchair. "I went to the Steward on behalf of an acquaintance today," he told her, following that inkling. "A young woman I met in Lossarnach who needs my help. Her name is Morwen." He frowned. "Why would you think Oswin would be there with me in that meeting?"

Wynflaed frowned in a vague way and focused on her knife. If she polished it any more, it would become invisible.

"Does Oswin know about this young woman? Wynflaed."

Wynflaed gave in. "Know about her? He met her. Yesterday. He and Cenhelm. He's possessed — Oswin, not Cenhelm. Once he found out everything he needed to know, he and Idhren wrapped up your future all nice and tidy."

"He decided that overnight?"

"Oswin doesn't beat about the bush. He's desperate to get you a queen and heir before he dies."

"How did that happen?" he groused. "How did Oswin connect her with me to begin with? I've mentioned her to no one except Ecthelion, who probably has no memory of it."

"I don't know!" Wynflaed snapped. "Cenhelm, probably. You both stayed in the girl's home, didn't you?"

"Cenhelm." Thengel rubbed his eyes and swore. "What a mess."

"For once I agree with you." Wynflaed glowered.

He peeked at her from between his fingers. "You do?"

She didn't reply.

"Why? Why did you quit?"

Wynflaed stabbed the air with her knife. "Because it's foolish. She could be my daughter if Idhren's description is true."

"Idhren!" He forgot that he had introduced her to Morwen. And then Turgon's words came back to him. Idhren had been very busy since the feast.

"Yes. Oswin grilled her for information as soon as he could. And I must say the Mark doesn't need a child bride for a queen."

Thengel felt his hackles rising. "Morwen isn't a child, Wynflaed, and she's as capable of filling that roll as any other woman in Gondor."

"Then you're determined to have her? Pigtails and milk teeth and all?"

"Wynflaed." He ground his eyes with his fingers. "I didn't say that. You don't know her and you shouldn't speak ill of her, that's all."

"I don't like it." Then she said, "If you're determined not to have her—"

"For gods sake, Wynflaed, I am not determined either way. Stop putting words in my mouth."

"Then either way, Oswin's going to make a mess of things between you if you don't be careful," she told him. "Look, I don't want to see you saddled to a woman you don't want and I certainly don't want an infant for a queen. I hope I don't have to warn you to stay away from her?"

He regarded Wynflaed solemnly. "Morwen's in trouble, Wynflaed, and I promised to help her. Gods." He cringed. "Turgon must be in on it too. Men are freer outside, my foot."

"See?" Wynflaed cried. "It's already out of hand. Listen to me and for once could you not rush in for the rescue. Leave it alone before we're all stuck with her."

Stuck with Morwen? He wanted to shake Wynflaed. "I can't."

"No. Of course not." Wynflaed rolled her eyes. "You're so valiant," she said like it was a dirty word. "What's her problem that you can't leave alone?"

He told her as much as he could, beginning with Hardang and his family through the facts Morwen had confided in him in Idhren's garden.

"This Halmir wants to marry her too?" Wynflaed said dully.

"Yes," he said distractedly, not noticing the look of alarm on her face when he answered. "But why, Wynflaed? He has the money he needs to go forward with the project and the power to remove her from the land. Why doesn't he just do it outright? What am I missing?"

"A brain," she muttered. "Let him marry her and then you'll be off the hook."

Thengel ignored her. "If Bar-en-Ferin is rightfully Halmir's, what's to stop him from pushing Morwen out and taking it? Why does he need her to marry him? As far as I can tell he'd only reclaim land for his nephew."

Wynflaed stared ahead with an indifferent air. Then her head drooped to one side as if she just noticed Thengel's fireplace for the first time.

"The new lord of Lossarnach is a baby?"

"Yes, that's why Halmir's acting as regent."

She squinted at him. "But who has the baby?"

Thengel stared back at her. "What?"

"Thengel, who has the baby?"

He stilled, trying to understand the question behind the question. And then he saw light. Who has the Lord of Lossarnach?

"Wyn, you're a marvel." He got up and kissed her roughly on the cheek.

"Get off!" Then she said, "Wait, what did I do?"

"Of course. It's so stupid! Even Turgon seemed surprised to hear that Halmir was acting regent. That right would go first to Ferneth as the child's mother, if she doesn't forfeit to a male relative. Perhaps she has? Until we know for certain, there's a chance for Morwen."

"A small one based on a technicality," Wynflaed pointed out.

"I don't think so," he said confidently. "Look, Halmir needed to think of his income now that he's no longer his brother's heir. He probably saw the success of the orchard and thought Morwen an easy target. With Ferneth convalescing who's to stop him? But Halmir must fear the possibility that Ferneth will assert her rights to act as regent and block his plans eventually, which is why he needs Morwen to cooperate."

"Why would she care if this Halmir or this Morwen has the orchard?"

"I think because Hardang honored the agreement between Morwen's parents and his own father while he lived. Ferneth presumably would as well, in Forlong's name." Thengel paused while his mind assembled more of the pieces. "With the marriage in place, Ferneth's hands are tied. She can't remove Halmir without also removing Morwen and breaking the pact."

Wynflaed made a sour face. "Cunning fellow."

"Not too cunning if he thought Morwen would be biddable. He doesn't know what she's made of." Thengel crossed his arm, feeling satisfied in his mind about this particular piece of the puzzle until Wynflaed ruined it for him.

"He sounds just like Father, you know."

Thengel growled in disgust. "You think so?"

"Which means he won't be in a good mood if his plan isn't working out."

Thengel's shoulders tightened as this new observation sunk in. "No, he won't be best pleased."

No doubt Halmir didn't reckon on Morwen digging in her heels. He must be growing desperate as time runs out. Ferneth's distress will pass eventually and then she'll look to the matters of the fief and discover what her slimy brother-in-law had tried to do.

"Who knows what mischief he's been up to in Morwen's absence?"

Wynflaed looked grim. "I suppose you're going to tell this Morwen your latest inspiration?"

"I have to," he said. "If he is like Father, as you say, he's probably plotting a way to punish her and the less time he has to do it in the better. We've delayed our return too long as it is."

"You aren't going to Lossarnach?"

He looked at her in surprise. "Of course I am."

"What?" Wynflaed cried. "That's the last thing you should do. Oswin will hug himself!"

"Someone has to get rid of Halmir."

"Leave it, Thengel. Let that Ferneth woman take care of it — or Morwen's other cousins. Idhren says she's related to Prince Adrahil. That's the proper person to do it."

"But there's still the hundred axemen to contend with, Wynflaed. Remember? Ferneth might be in the right, but she and Morwen will still be outnumbered."

"What business is it of yours? Hey!"

But he had walked out of the room. Wynflaed beat the couch with her fists then slumped against the cushions. She tossed her knife on the table.

Then he rushed back in. Wynflaed sat up. He scanned the tables and shelves before setting his eyes on the case housing the Horn of Eorl. He grabbed it.

"What do you want with that?" she asked. "If Oswin sees you with it you're done for."

Thengel made a face at her. "I don't know yet. I'm thinking."

"You don't have a plan?"

He pocketed the box. "I'm sure one will come to me," he said, "in the fullness of time."

"Oh good, hair-brain. Very assuring."

"I'll…fight fire with fire."

"Thengel, that doesn't actually put out a fire. It just means more fire!"

"Exactly."

"What?"

Ignoring her, he disappeared through the door again.

"Hey there!" She jumped up after him. "Where are you going?"

"The training fields!" he shouted from the passage.

"First sensible thing you've said all day," she muttered. Then she scrambled from the room, shoving the knives into her belt. "Wait, I'm coming with you!"

Thengel held the door. "No, you're not."

"Stop me." She squeezed past him, outside.

Thengel stalked beside her until they were out of the courtyard. "Did Oswin tell you to follow me around?"

"I told you, we've parted ways."

She may have parted from Oswin, but that didn't mean she had switched her allegiance to Thengel.

"Then why are you coming?"

Wynflaed sneered at an oncoming passerby who foolishly chose to stare at them. He changed sides of the road. "I'm bored," she answered. "Besides, you owe me for enlightening you."

"Fine," he said grudgingly. She did have a point. "Stay out of trouble and don't menace any of Lady Aranel's household."

"Are we going to Lady Aranel's household? I thought we were going to the training fields."

"Yes. After I've told my guard where we're going."

"Good. I want a look at this Morwen of Lossarnach. I haven't interacted with a child since Fritha's daughters grew up. I wonder if I'll scare her away?"

"Wynflaed."

She clawed an X over her heart. "I swear on the graves of Folcred and Fastred not to menace anyone who doesn't deserve it."

"That isn't what I said," he groused.

"That's as good as you're going to get."


	27. Champion

Morwen sat in the window overlooking the courtyard, waiting. The afternoon sun filtered through the clouds, scattering pretty patterns of light and shadow over the stone. She wanted to appreciate the view more than she did, but her thoughts kept wandering beyond the sitting room and Angelimir's courtyard.

Aranel had lent her yarn and some needles so at least her hands were busy, though her heart wasn't in it. She hadn't knitted anything since the last of the freezing rain in January. It felt odd to spend so many days together with nothing more strenuous to do than dress fittings or walk in circles around the back garden.

"I don't think you should grip the needles quite so hard," Morwen heard Aranel say. Her cousin's wife was seated at a small table near the window making lists for her housekeeper while Adrahil wrote letters at his desk.

Morwen glanced down at the beginning of a shawl. Her knuckles were white and the tips of her fingers red. She relaxed and looked at the sad, curling piece. The tension looked far too tight and somewhere in the pattern she had forgotten an increase. Or two. She exhaled and dropped the whole thing in her lap.

"Didn't Prince Thengel tell you when he thought he might speak to the Steward?" Aranel asked.

"No," she answered. "I forgot to ask him."

"Adrahil, why don't we invite Prince Thengel for dinner?"

Morwen sat up straighter. "Would you?"

Adrahil looked up from his letter. "If that would please you."

"It would," Aranel said. "We can all learn more from him then. In the meantime Morwen won't have to glue herself to the window waiting for him to turn up."

Morwen blushed. Was it so obvious? The footman spared her from the scrutiny of her cousins by entering with a letters for Adrahil. He received the stack waiting to be sent out and withdrew. Adrahil handed a few to Aranel, then broke the seal on a small note and opened it. His eyes popped in his head.

"Don't bother with the menu just yet, Aranel. The Steward's chamberlain has summoned me. He wants me to come immediately." He grinned at Morwen. "See, not so hopeless."

"Is that Prince Thengel's doing?" Aranel asked.

"I don't know, but now it looks like we can act for ourselves without Prince Thengel's help," Adrahil said as he rose to leave. "I should be back before supper, hopefully bearing good new."

"Or any news," Aranel added.

…

When Adrahil left them alone, Aranel finished her writing and spoke to her housekeeper. Morwen had given up any pretense of working on her project. She spent a minute or two ripping out the stitches of her strangled project, which felt more satisfying than she had anticipated. When the city bells rang the hour, she exchanged a glance with Aranel.

"So, we're to learn the verdict soon. I'm glad the Steward asked to see Adrahil directly. Why don't you and I enjoy the sun in the garden until he comes home?"

More circles in the garden, Morwen thought, missing the many trails around her home. But she laid aside the yarn and needles to follow Aranel out of the room.

They were stopped in the passage by the same footman, this time announcing the arrival of Lady Idhren.

…

Lady Idhren kissed Aranel on the cheek. "Forgive me, I'm calling so late in the day."

"Morwen and I were just going into the garden," Aranel told her before Idhren could ensconce herself inside the sitting room. "Won't you join us?"

"A garden. How refreshing," Idhren answered.

Morwen guarded her expression, remembering the forlorn state of the Steward's own sunken garden behind the palace.

"Ah, and Morwen," said Idhren, turning the force of her gaze on Morwen so that she felt as if a weight had settled on her shoulders. She allowed Idhren to also kiss her cheek.

Idhren murmured, "I almost didn't recognize you again. Such a beautiful dress you wore to the feast. I hope the water didn't damage it."

Water? Aranel mouthed from behind Idhren's back.

"The dress looked completely unaffected, but thank you for your concern," Morwen replied, careful not to look at Aranel again.

Idhren smiled slightly. "Well, these things have a way of showing themselves later."

They certainly did, Morwen agreed. And she knew she would have to give Aranel a second telling of that night with a few more details included this time. Not that she felt she had conducted herself poorly on the night of the feast, in her opinion, but she hadn't left the feast in the same state in which she had arrived.

When they had seated themselves in the lawn furniture under the shade of an old fig tree, Idhren had managed to corner Morwen on the bench seat, leaving Aranel with the choice of any individual chair. A servant brought a decanter of a cool, light wine, which Aranel served around.

Idhren received her wine with thanks, but then angled her body so that Morwen felt they were having something of a private discussion.

"I'm so sorry I've neglected to make your acquaintance sooner. Naturally I've been very curious about you since the feast, given your connection to my husband's family and our dear friend Thengel."

"I'm sure we didn't expect you so soon," Aranel answered for Morwen. "Busy as you always are."

The lady nodded. "Very busy. But this is exactly the sort of thing I like," said Idhren. "Making new friends is always delightful to me. And you know the whole town is wondering about the unknown woman who Prince Thengel kept to himself the other night."

"The whole town?" Morwen asked weakly.

Lady Idhren's eyes took on a strange brilliance. "Of course! I've heard of nothing else since. Everyone wants to solve the mystery."

Morwen noticed Aranel shifting uncomfortably during this speech. That Idhren had exaggerated the details in her own mind, Morwen didn't doubt. And yet, both of her cousins had foiled any of her attempts to stir from the house all day. Was it true that she was a source of gossip? She tried to catch Aranel's eye, but her cousin was busy following the flight path of two swallows over the garden.

"What mystery?"

"Oh, who you are…"

"They must know I'm related to Adrahil. I was announced at the door."

Idhren waved her hand. "Yes, but what are you?"

"The whole town will be disappointed to find out that I'm just another farmer from Lossarnach," Morwen said as calmly as possible.

"Disappointed? Nothing could be more romantic than the pastoral."

Oh certainly, Morwen thought. Sweat and dirt and bee stings. Going to bed with a backache and then waking up with the same backache. Produce prices that haven't risen in an age while the cost of everything else goes up.

"Of course being noticed by someone like Thengel always raises a woman's allure."

Morwen felt there was an expected response, but she couldn't think of what it could be. She knew flattery when she heard it, but it wasn't the same as Halmir's. Idhren perhaps never intended for her to take it seriously. Yet, like Halmir, she might have been expected something in return?

"You're teasing me, Lady Idhren."

"On my honor, I speak nothing but the truth!" Idhren smiled again. "Thengel never did say how you met. I suppose you must have known him through Lord Hardang."

"No, we met by accident."

Idhren smirked at her glass. "I met my husband by accident."

Aranel turned her head just slightly away from Lady Idhren, which Morwen knew how to interpret now as disbelief.

"So it's true that you have a lovely orchard that you run all on your own."

"Did Prince Thengel tell you that?" Morwen asked.

"No, he told Ecthelion, which amounts to his telling me. It has been so long since Ecthelion and I have toured the fief. Perhaps we should do that this summer," she frowned, "if I can pull him away from Ithilien. An orchard is so interesting. Tell me about the fruit."

Morwen blinked at her. "The fruit?"

"Yes, the fruit. Any old kind." But before Morwen could start, she added, "I would love to see Imloth Melui in bloom. I know it's become a favorite with Thengel."

Morwen felt confusion welling up inside of her. She couldn't tell Idhren positively that she would be welcome as a guest, nor did she want to explain her problem with Halmir. Morwen had to entertain the truth that accepting any more guests at Bar-en-Ferin might be out of her power for good.

"Morwen may be joining us in Dol Amroth shortly," Aranel said calmly, saving Morwen from answering.

Idhren's expression crystalized. "Oh. So far away." Then she said to Aranel, "I hope your mother is well."

"My mother is always well, thank you."

"I'm so sorry to have missed your charming husband."

"He had business with the Steward this afternoon."

As Aranel spoke, an understanding seemed to pass between the two women. Morwen sensed it rather than knew it to be true, but by the slight deepening of the smile that was always ready on Lady Idhren's lips and the way Aranel's expression hardened when she mentioned the Steward, Morwen thought her instincts were correct.

Aranel rose abruptly. "Lady Idhren," she said, "Morwen and I will be dressing for dinner soon. Thank you for coming."

Before either Morwen or Idhren could follow Aranel's example and rise, the footman crossed the garden toward them. Bowing, he announced that Prince Thengel and Princess Wynflaed had asked to be admitted. Lady Idhren's smile wavered as she put down her cup.

…

Thengel appeared first, followed by a fair-haired woman, somewhat shorter in stature. They stopped on the small terrace and Thengel whispered something to her. The princess turned her back to them and they seemed to be studying one of Aranel's potted myrtles. Although Morwen couldn't see her face, the stiff ridge of her shoulders spoke of a disagreement occurring between the two. The footman stood nearby, waiting with barely concealed interest in the exchange.

Thengel left his sister to regard the planter on her own. Idhren rose and greeted him in unison with Aranel. They gave one another bemused looks. Idhren apologized by smirking. Morwen found herself struggling to her feet after them, almost hiding herself behind Idhren. Where she had been impatient for news, she now found that she heartily wished to put off the final verdict. When their eyes met he gave her a slight smile.

Thengel bowed to them. "Forgive my sister and I for disturbing your afternoon, Princess Aranel."

Aranel assured him that they were both very welcome, while casting a glance toward the terrace, wondering when Wynflaed would join them. "I don't believe Morwen or I have had the opportunity to meet her before now. Will she be joining us?"

"Yes, she's coming," he said blandly.

Wynflaed crossed the garden looking dour. Morwen studied her with great interest. Brother and sister had similar eyes, but Wynflaed had an upturned nose and a slant to her mouth that didn't inspire confidence, say, if one met her in a deserted courtyard. She had a dressing over her forearm that peeked out from her sleeve. Wounds must be a matter of course on a cultural level, Morwen thought, reminded of Guthere.

"Hello, dear Wynflaed," Idhren said. "I missed you this morning when you didn't come. Whatever kept you?"

The slant of Wynflaed's lips deepened and her muscles seemed to bunch the way a tomcat's would when another cat crosses its territory. Morwen felt the tension and stepped forward.

"Is it true, Princess Wynflaed, that you have a sword called death-husband?" Morwen asked to deflect attention from Idhren.

Wynflaed's gaze snapped to Morwen, as if surprised to discover her there. If Idhren's had been a weight on Morwen's shoulders, Wynflaed's felt more like a razor. It only required a light touch to the skin to know that one should proceed with caution.

"Wyn, this is Lady Morwen."

Wynflaed's eyelids drooped slightly and Morwen felt the release from the razor's edge. "I am pleased to meet you, Princess Wynflaed."

Wynflaed clasped Morwen by the wrist, an odd greeting to Morwen's mind, but she found she liked it. Except that the shieldmaiden didn't seem inclined to let go. Morwen glanced down at their wrists and noticed that Princess Wynflaed's hands were mottled and a little greasy. A nasty blood blister had formed on one of Wynflaed's fingers and her knuckles looked swollen. Working hands.

Wynflaed said something Morwen didn't quite hear. "Pardon?"

"Westu lȳtling hal."

Morwen recognized the form of greeting from her conversations with Guthere, but some of it puzzled her. She caught Thengel glaring at Wynflaed.

"So you are the one," Wynflaed said.

Morwen blinked and withdrew her hand. "The one…?"

"The one Oswin spoke of, she means," Thengel interjected. "Wynflaed said you met him yesterday."

"Oh yes," Morwen replied. "Did Marshal Oswin mention what I told him regarding Guthere?"

Thengel looked at Wynflaed, then back to Morwen. "No."

"Oh. Nevermind," she murmured. Then to Wynflaed she said, "Thengel told me a little about you, as well. It is true you are a shieldmaiden?"

"When the Marshal has no other use for me, yes," Wynflaed answered sternly.

"Have you given up your task, then?" Idhren asked, indicating the dressing beneath the sleeve.

Wynflaed bared her teeth in what might have been a smile. "Yes. The fight calls to me now."

Idhren sat down.

Morwen looked to Thengel for a clue to the subtext. She knew that Wynflaed had come to help Marshal Oswin find a wife for Thengel, but it sounded like Wynflaed had felt the task dissatisfying. For Thengel's sake, Morwen felt relieved. Perhaps they were prepared to leave him alone, after all.

"If you'll excuse us, Lady Aranel, I would like to have a word alone with Morwen regarding Bar-en-Ferin."

Aranel cast a quick look at Idhren. "Of course." Then she smiled politely at Wynflaed and offered her some wine.

Wynflaed sat stiffly in a chair across from Idhren. Three very different women in one small garden, Morwen felt a little stab of curiosity to know what they would do and say as Thengel drew her away from the fig tree. He led her to a laurel near the gate that led from the garden into the courtyard.

Morwen cast a glance over her shoulder. "So that's your sister."

Thengel frowned. "Yes."

"You and Wynflaed look similar," she observed.

"All of us take after my mother, Wynflaed especially," he replied. "Except maybe in manner."

"What is it that Wynflaed said to me?"

"It was a greeting. Be welcome, little one."

Morwen stared. "Little one? I'm taller than she is."

"It's an endearment." He didn't quite meet her eye.

Was it? Morwen wondered. "Your uncle is a gallant man," she continued.

"Just how did you manage to run into Oswin anyway?" he asked.

"I saw Cenhelm in the street." She cringed, remembering her conversation with Lord Daeron. "And he introduced us. The Marshal insisted on walking me home."

"He frogmarched you to your door, you mean," Thengel muttered.

Morwen tried to squash a grin, but Thengel's description had been rather accurate. "Perhaps," she said politely. "But it wasn't unwelcome." Thengel looked like he doubted her judgment. "It allowed me to dodge an unwelcome acquaintance."

Thengel's expression darkened. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I discovered at least one source of Halmir's finances. Very awkward."

"Who?"

"My dance partner at the feast, Lord Daeron. Do you remember him?"

"No," Thengel said abruptly.

It didn't surprise Morwen. He certainly hadn't seemed to notice Daeron on the dance floor when he cut in. "He's a friend of Halmir's."

"How did you find this out?"

"Halmir made him privy to his personal hopes for my household. Lord Daeron was keen for news of my cousin's project and scrupled to ask me all about it."

"He knows all of Halmir's plans?"

Morwen nodded. "Every last detail."

Thengel rested his arm on a low tree branch as if it were a mantelpiece. He regarded her solemnly. "You told Daeron it's out of the question."

"Naturally."

"What did he do?"

"He didn't do anything, per se, but his feelings were plain. He's none too pleased with Halmir."

"Daeron didn't harass you, did he?"

"No. He's not a bad sort of person, but he should be more discerning in his friends. Perhaps now he will be." She frowned. "Although, maybe I'm wrong. Halmir may succeed after all. What do you think?"

Thengel looked away. "I'm sorry, Morwen," he said gravely. "There isn't anything the Steward's court can do."

Morwen listen to this news with nerveless detachment. "Oh," was all she said.

"I'm sorry that's not the news you wanted," he began.

"I'm resigned," she said tiredly.

"Resigned?" he said with surprise.

"Adrahil never had high hopes of succeeding with the Steward. They've convinced me to seek other possibilities."

"What are those?"

"Well, Adrahil and Aranel have asked me to come to Dol Amroth."

"Dol Amroth! Will you?" he asked incredulously.

"It's a possibility." She hugged her arms to her chest. "Eventually. When I've sorted things at Bar-en-Ferin as much as I can."

Thengel considered the towers rising from the citadel in the distance, just visible over the lip of the walls. "What about Minas Tirith?"

Morwen wrinkled her nose in distaste. "What about it?"

"Surely you could live here as well as you could in Belfalas," he objected.

"What would I do here? I've never liked the city," she told him. "At least in Belfalas I can be of use to my father's family."

"But Dol Amroth is so far from Lossarnach. You may not feel at home there."

Then she asked him, "Have you ever been to Dol Amroth?"

Thengel nodded. "Yes. Two or three times while I was stationed at Pelargir years ago. I made the journey over the sea with Prince Angelimir. It is a beautiful place." He added, "But it is clear on the other side of Gondor, Morwen. Far from Lossarnach and your friends."

"I know."

He let go of the branch and crossed his arms. "Well, don't decide anything definitely. Halmir hasn't succeeded just yet."

"It's only a matter of time," she said sharply.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Listen, Morwen, I believe we've been looking for the answer to the wrong question and I have an idea."

Her eyes brightened. "You have?"

"Sort of. It's coming together. Would you allow me to return with you to Imloth Melui?"

"Why, what do you have in mind?"

"I'll tell you when I can. Right now, just trust me."

"Prince Thengel—"

"Just Thengel, remember?" he said.

Morwen swallowed. "Thengel. It isn't that I'm ungrateful, but it's a complex situation. I can't ask you to do more than you have done already. Adrahil promised to travel with me and if he can't come to terms with Halmir, I'm going with them to Dol Amroth."

They regarded one another quietly until Thengel broke the silence.

"Forgive me, but I think my way would be better."

"Forgive me, but I doubt it."

He arched a brow, "Is that a challenge?"

"This isn't a game," she reminded him, "it's my life."

Thengel sobered. "I know and I'm sorry."

"Thank you, but I can see my course." Morwen stared mournfully ahead along the garden. "In fact, if Guthere has mended enough to ride, I think it would be best for him to return to you."

"You aren't without allies, Morwen. Halmir doesn't control the estate yet. I promised to help."

"And you have," she said. "By talking to the Steward."

"But there's one more thing to try. Until then, don't think too definitely about Dol Amroth."

Morwen ducked her head to hide the confusion she felt. She could sense the hope he wanted to extend to her, but hope was a double-edged sword. She wanted to accept it, but for the conviction that doing so would be like taking out credit to postpone the day of disappointment.

He held out his hand. "Wasn't it Erendil who said of The Faithful to Gil-Galad, 'we are not the ones who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who have faith and are saved'?"*

Morwen made a face. "Before Sauron slew him at the foot of Mount Doom?"

Thengel blinked. "Well, yes, but that's not the point. He didn't give up even after the Downfall and not in the face of Sauron's armies. Gondor wouldn't be here today if he hadn't tried."

She didn't have an answer for that.

"Halmir can't be worse than the Dark Lord."

"You'll be his guest," she warned.

"That remains to be seen." Thengel smiled. "One last effort."

It was odd, she thought, how he should care at all whether he had helped her or not. She recalled the morning in the orchard when he had read to them from that book of Northern epic poetry. He had been a stranger then and they hadn't seemed to understand one another. Now she could sometimes puzzle out what he was thinking just by the way the skin around his eyes crinkled. Even if she didn't know his entire story, she could at least recognize his moods.

Right now she recognized a person who did not like to yield a task unfinished. By unfinished, he would mean a task that hadn't answered his expectations. She admired his tenacity, but at this point she just wanted to end the whole affair with whatever dignity she had left. As much as she hated to surrender, the only way to rebuild her life would be to quit this one.

But what would giving in say about her spirit? Would she admire herself for slinking off to Dol Amroth in the wake of her cousins, to live from their open hands? What would he think of her? And did it matter to her?

Somehow she found that it did. Like Wynflaed, would she let the fight call to her?

"Oh, why not." Morwen took his hand and shook it. "Might as well give Halmir as much trouble as we can."

His expression lit with pride and she felt answered for any amount of foolishness she had just agreed to.

…

"How soon can you be ready to leave?" Thengel asked.

"Leave? Who's leaving?"

Morwen startled and withdrew her hand from Thengel's. They both turned to find Adrahil coming toward them. He had entered silently through the back gate, which was now hanging slightly ajar.

"Adrahil, you're home," Morwen said stupidly.

Adrahil bowed stiffly toward Prince Thengel, then he regarded Morwen. "Yes, I'm home. Now, what's this about leaving?"

"We are discussing plans to return to Lossarnach," Thengel answered for her.

Adrahil gave him a tight-lipped smile that didn't quite turn up at the corners. "I see," he said grimly.

In other men, Morwen might suppose that he was vaguely irritated by something. In Adrahil this demeanor bordered on outrage.

"What's the matter?" Morwen asked him.

"Come with me, both of you," he told them, taking Morwen's arm. "There's something we all need to discuss."

They crossed the garden together, Morwen towed by Adrahil, with Thengel lagging behind. She had the odd sensation that her cousin was dragging her from Prince Thengel rather than toward the three ladies. She shrugged off that thought as nonsense.

Aranel's smile faltered when she saw Adrahil's face. "How is the Steward today?" She nodded slightly toward Idhren, a warning.

"Very well," said Adrahil bitterly. "Never better."

Idhren rose, slow and stately. "I was just taking my leave. So sorry to duck out just as you've arrived, Prince Adrahil. Thengel, Wynflaed, will you join me?"

Adrahil held his hand up. "No, I think they need to hear what I'm about to relate."

Idhren held her ground.

"There's no need for us to delay you, my lady," Adrahil said.

Idhren nodded stoically and allowed Aranel to walk with her to the gate. When Aranel returned, they all sat down and waited for Adrahil.

"And what did the Steward want?" Aranel asked. She touched his arm. "And should we be troubling our guests with it?"

"Certainly. It concerns them closely. As to the Steward, I have good news and bad news," Adrahil said without his characteristic good humor.

"I already know the bad news," Morwen replied hastily, hoping to spare him. "Prince Thengel told me himself."

Adrahil gave Thengel a jaundiced look. "Not all of it, I believe." He leaned forward. "Morwen, I'm afraid I have to cancel our Lossarnach scheme. Aranel and I have to return to Dol Amroth on the Steward's behalf immediately." Aranel made a small sound, but quickly muffled it. "Be that as it may, I will make other arrangements for you. The good news is that Lord Belehir has agreed to take my place."

"Lord Belehir," Morwen parroted.

"You've already arranged it with Father?" Aranel asked.

"Yes."

"I wish you had arranged it with me first, Adrahil," Morwen told him frankly.

Adrahil looked surprised. "We don't have the luxury of time, Morwen. And I thought it would be one less thing for you to worry about."

Aranel folded her hands in her lap and looked unconvinced. "Father would certainly keep Morwen safe on the road. But, Adrahil, he is a very busy man - and very politic. What use will he be to Morwen where Halmir is concerned? You really had better go. Surely Lord Turgon will allow you to delay for a family matter."

"If that were possible, my dear, I would have arranged it. Lord Turgon is especially adamant in this case."

"Forgive me, Adrahil, but there's no need to involve Aranel's father. Thengel has agreed to travel with me," Morwen reminded him.

Thengel stood off to the side of the furniture like a piece of forgotten statuary, listening to the conversation with a stony expression. As of yet it seemed unclear what Adrahil deemed so necessary for him to hear and Morwen wondered at it. When she said his name he smiled at her.

Adrahil clenched his jaw as if something unpleasant had been confirmed in his mind. "I'm sure your intentions are good, Prince Thengel, and I'm sure we're all grateful for your help in this matter. We won't put you out of your way, however."

Morwen glanced at Thengel and thought she understood his expression.

"It's no trouble," Thengel told them. "The arrangements have already been made. My men and I can leave at a moment's notice."

Morwen felt a spark of surprise. Had he arranged all that before even asking her? He certainly liked taking matters into his own hands too!

"That's all very well, Prince Thengel." Adrahil seemed to be screwing himself up to have a serious talk with a man who was, if not his superior, then certainly an equal. Adrahil had to be delicate without losing his meaning. He rounded on Morwen instead. "You're exhausted from the distress you're under and perhaps you haven't considered all the options. Prince Thengel must have his own business to see to, especially with his family here from Rohan. Consider the suitability, Morwen. How would it look for you to travel alone with him?"

"I'm coming too, if that's any comfort."

Everyone turned to Wynflaed who had been listening with her eyes closed, and by all, seemed to be asleep. Her eyes were open now and taking in Prince Adrahil's measure. Adrahil returned the scrutiny with growing irritation, while Thengel stared at his sister with something like distress. The corners of her lips curled upward slightly.

"Well, that's settled," said Aranel.

"Hardly," Adrahil retorted, as Thengel exclaimed, "Absolutely not!"

But Morwen felt herself warming to the idea. Adrahil had a point. Prince Thengel would be taken away from his uncle and sister, which though he acted more than happy to put a few miles between them, she didn't quite believe it. Why shouldn't Princess Wynflaed come? The woman hadn't seen her brother in twenty years. Was it right for Morwen's problems to interrupt their time together? And it would answer Adrahil's doubts about propriety.

"I'm satisfied with the arrangement," Morwen told them. "Princess Wynflaed, I would be honored to host you at Bar-en-Ferin, while I can."

"Thank you, Lady Morwen." Wynflaed rose and rested her hand on her brother's shoulder. He seemed to swallow his objections, but only just.

"So be it," said Adrahil wearily. "We have much to discuss before you leave." He glanced sharply at Thengel. "By the by, when will that be?"

Morwen looked to Thengel too.

"I can be ready tomorrow morning," he told them.

"So can I." After all, hadn't she complained about the lack of action? "Tomorrow then."

Adrahil gave Thengel an unhappy look, then bent slightly at the waist. "Tomorrow then, Prince Thengel."

Morwen followed Adrahil's example. "I will expect you," she said. Then she turned to Wynflaed, "And you."

Thengel gave them a curt nod before making his way across the garden. Wynflaed ranged behind him. She stopped at the potted myrtle and stooped to take something out from under the branches. Morwen saw the sunlight flash off of something steel.

"Were those knives?" Aranel leaned over to murmur to Morwen.

"That's what I thought."

"You know, Morwen, I am almost jealous that we can't come with you," Aranel said. "It should be very interesting."

When their guests were long gone, Adrahil sat down in the chair beside his wife and kicked the table. Morwen startled.

"So the interview with Turgon didn't go well," Aranel said at last.

Adrahil clenched his fists. "Well! No, it didn't go well. Interfering, overbearing, scheming…ugh!"

Morwen exchanged concerned glances with Aranel. Adrahil rose from the chair and paced around the grouping of furniture. She had never seen her cousin lose his temper before and she didn't care for it.

"And how soon are we to leave?" Aranel asked calmly.

"Oh he's very generous," Adrahil nearly snarled. "A whole three days."

"Three days!" Aranel gasped. "What could possibly be so important?"

Adrahil looked at Morwen. "What indeed?" Then he gritted his teeth. "And just after I wrote to Father explaining it would be some weeks before we joined him. He's going to accuse me of being mercurial."

"Surely your father will understand when you explain the Steward's business," Aranel reassured him.

Adrahil looked sour. "Business. Oh, I'll tell Father exactly the nature of the Steward's business."

"What is it, anyway?" Aranel asked. "Has he declared open war on Umbar or something?"

Adrahil stopped abruptly as if pulled by a string. He straightened the cuff of his sleeve, studying it minutely. "I'm under strict instructions not to tell a soul what we discussed until I arrive at my father's door in Dol Amroth."

"Surely Morwen and I don't count," Aranel said.

"Especially you," he replied.

Morwen rose. "I won't tease you for an explanation, Adrahil. I don't much care for the Steward at the moment, or anything he has to say."

Adrahil's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. "You don't?" He laughed grimly. "You know, the poets say faith can move mountains," he said philosophically. "So does a pretty face in a young woman, apparently." He looked at her closely. "Bar-en-Ferin is nothing to what you could exchange it for."

"What do you mean?" Morwen asked, stung by his tone.

He considered her a moment before answering. "Shall I spell it out for you, cousin Morwen?"

"Adrahil, don't tease her," Aranel chided. "Lady Idhren's done enough of that for today."

Morwen rubbed the space between her brows as she became sensible to the throbbing in her head. "I probably wouldn't understand you anyway."

"You probably wouldn't like it if you did," Adrahil observed.

She felt certain he was right.


	28. Idhren

That evening Thengel made his way to the citadel and the Steward's house. In his haste he'd forgotten to inform Ecthelion of his decision to leave Minas Tirith. Even if the Marshal's presence in Gondor kept Thengel from actively serving in his post as Ecthelion's lieutenant, he felt he owed his captain an explanation. That and Oswin's obvious glee upon hearing of his plans made Thengel only too glad to get out of the house. Wynflaed was right. Their uncle nearly did hug himself. He wasn't in the mood to listen to another man congratulate himself.

Mallor let Thengel into Idhren's sitting room when he refused to join the family at supper. He didn't feel like small talk. A stack of books lay abandoned on a table, so he picked one up and thumbed through it until he heard the door open.

Idhren slipped inside the room instead of her husband. She shut the door and turned to face him. "Ecthelion went upstairs. I told him I wanted a word with you first," she said, lingering by the door. "So. Is it true that you're riding to Lossarnach tomorrow with Morwen?"

Thengel made a sour face. "News travels fast in the city."

They regarded one another for a small space before she broke into a chagrined smile.

"Are you very angry with me?"

"Why should I be angry with you, Idhren?" he asked stiffly.

She shrugged. "I can see that you are."

"Why, what have you done?" he asked, giving her the opportunity to admit to mischief.

She licked her lip. "Well…"

Thengel began counting off on his fingers. "Let's see. You carried tales to the Steward, for one. Then you had me barred from the Steward's chamber yesterday so that you could collaborate. Then I find out from Wynflaed that you're conspiring with Oswin, as well. After that, I discover you camping out at Prince Adrahil's home. All for some harebrained idea that I'm to marry Lady Morwen."

"So?" she said, nose in the air. "Why shouldn't I visit where I choose?"

"You have no right to interfere in my affairs."

Idhren's eyebrows arched with an air of challenge. "Your sister and your uncle both asked for my help when they arrived in Minas Tirith. If that doesn't give me a right, then consider that I am your oldest friend in Gondor. Does that not give me a right to act in your best interest? Right now what you need is a push in the right direction."

Thengel gestured widely with the book. "You're going to push me out of reckoning in a moment."

"Nonsense. Put that book down before you break the window."

"Do you know why Turgon decided to send Prince Adrahil back to Dol Amroth so urgently?"

Idhren looked vaguely curious. "Has he?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps the Steward declared open war on Umbar?"

"Idhren."

"What? Ecthelion wouldn't tell me if he had. I can't explain the Steward's decision to you," she told him. "I know I look important but I'm really just a glorified housewife with excellent comportment."

Thengel ignored her. "He's getting Adrahil out of the way. Why?"

Idhren dropped the vague posturing and stepped up to him. "Because you need to settle your future, Thengel, and quickly. I'm worried. Ecthelion would drive you into the ground without a second thought if you let him." She raised a hand when he began to protest. "I realize he doesn't require anything of you that he doesn't require of himself, but he has a son. What would Rohan do if you fell — if you had fallen this winter when those orcs were driven down from the north?"

Thengel leaned back on his heels. "Worry about me all you want, but why manipulate Morwen's family?"

"Don't be obtuse, please," she chided. "I need to know how to act for you if you're to marry her."

He looked askance. "We will not discuss that—"

"Darling, you must know that tone won't work with me. Besides, I don't see why we shouldn't discuss it. Everyone else is. Do you want her or not?"

"It's impossible."

She held up a finger. "Now that's an evasion. It's far from impossible as long as she's breathing and unmarried. Listen, darling, she's exactly what your uncle is seeking for you. Beautiful, of high lineage, youthful—"

"Yes, youthful," he groused. "If you know so much about her, then you know that she's about to be displaced from her home by her cousin. With help she can keep her lands and I've pledged myself to do it. She isn't likely to trade that for a man seventeen years her senior and bound for Rohan."

"But why would you make such a foolish pledge?" Idhren cried.

"Because it's the right thing to do."

Idhren pulled him down on the couch beside her, their knees nearly touching. She leaned toward him so he had to look her in the eyes. "Thengel, do you want her?"

Thengel lips formed a thin, hard line. He leaned away.

"Are you using stubborn silence on me?" she scoffed. "That might work with Oswin or Wynflaed, but I won't tolerate it for an instant. I know you're too stiff-necked to admit anything to them, but if we treated our friends the same way we treated our relations, we wouldn't have any. So don't you dare."

"I'm not being stubborn," he muttered.

"Good. Twenty years we've been friends. This is no time for secrets."

"There's nothing to tell you, Idhren."

Idhren's eyes sparked as she looked at him. "And now you're lying." She sank back against the couch and clapped her hands together. "I thought the Rohirrim were all completely honest."

"I've lived in Gondor for half my life," he pointed out.

Idhren shook her head, pressing her hand to her breast. "It has been the great shock of my life realizing my powers of observation have fallen off. As the consort of the future Steward it is an unwelcome revelation, let me tell you. And now this breach of friendship just might ruin me forever."

"Idhren," he sighed.

"I never even suspected that you left a love interest behind you in Lossarnach. Did you mention her? No. I had to drag the story out of Ecthelion after the feast." Her eyes upbraided him. "How is that supposed to make me feel?"

Thengel fell silent, staring at the floor. Then he said, "Morwen hasn't suspected either."

Idhren sat up, flashing a smile so fierce he almost scooted away from her. "Then you do want her. I knew I read you correctly."

Thengel rubbed his eyes, trying to unsee the triumph in Idhren's. "It doesn't matter what I want. She doesn't think of me that way at all."

Idhren shrugged at this small obstacle. "How do you know? Truly, I tried to ferret out Morwen's feelings this afternoon, but Aranel bent herself on obstructing me. In general I think very well of Aranel, but I can't abide artful women. Morwen, on the other hand, couldn't be more artless if she tried. Poor thing. How do you know she doesn't think of you that way? I don't agree with you at all. Why, at the feast—"

"Believe me, it's clear," he said gruffly, "especially at the feast. Morwen is single-mindedly married to her orchards."

Idhren drummed her fingers over her lips while she thought. "If she's so married to her orchards, why is she countenancing a move to Dol Amroth? Surely you don't want her to go so far."

"Leave it to a boy like Adrahil to put that foolish idea in her head," he grumbled.

Idhren smothered a grin. "So," she began, "am I to understand that your disheveled appearance after the dance had nothing to do with romance, despite the fact that you were alone on a dark, starry evening?"

"Of course not! We were watering the flowers."

She studied him beneath half-lidded eyes, looking for possible entendres. "What flowers?"

"Yours."

"Mine?" She turned toward the windows. "Do I have flowers?"

He looked at her oddly. "In the back garden."

"You were in my garden? Thengel, again I am shocked. If I'm to be a party to a tryst, I'll thank you to let me know beforehand." She tossed her hair in a way Thengel hadn't seen her do since they were young. "It would have given me something satisfying to think about while I frustrated Lady Rían."

Thengel exhaled as he tried to expel some of his exasperation. "It wasn't a tryst. We needed to talk in private about her situation. That's all. Morwen isn't used to being a source of gossip and everyone could overhear in Merethrond."

Idhren stared at him. "So, you disappeared with her for an extended period of time and then returned in an interesting state to Merethrond, when you could have left with a modicum of privacy through my house?"

Thengel cringed as her sarcasm hit home. "I wasn't thinking straight."

Idhren's expression softened. "No, you weren't. Now that poor child is being talked over in a vulgar way in every sitting room in the city. Poor innocent."

Thengel felt the hair rising on his arm and neck. He hadn't tried to make Morwen a target for gossipmongers. "You helped, shoving us out of Merethrond like that and carrying tales of your own."

"Yes, but my help was to the point." She mimicked his earlier counting. "One, to give you both a modicum of respectability by being noticed by me. Second, I know an opportunity when I see one. Recall, Thengel, my once informing you that if you didn't make a choice, it would be made for you. The gossip mill will do that now - quite conveniently for all your friends, I must say."

"Convenient!"

She gave him a knowing half smile. "Darling, you're practically honor-bound now. If you ride off to Lossarnach with her, then your fate is as good as sealed."

"Idhren, you wouldn't…"

"You lit the first match; I'll gladly light the second one if she's to be sacrificed on the alter of your uncle's wishes, as long as you want her. While the city slept that night, I was busy. I know all about this girl, her parentage, and her wealth, such as it is. You made it easy for me, choosing the daughter of the Steward's late friend. If you think you could be happy with her, I'll do whatever I can to help you get her."

Thengel sat in stubborn silence as the waves of information and Idhren's determination rolled over him. How had the situation run off without him? How could he stop it from going any further?

Idhren reached for his hand. "Regardless of her feelings, regardless of her situation, and the age difference, what is the truth?"

Idhren waited with cool patience while he thought of a hundred different things to say.

"I care about her wellbeing."

She rolled her eyes. "You care about my wellbeing. Do you love her?"

Thengel stared stubbornly at their hands. He heard Idhren sigh.

"All right. How long have you known you were in love with her?"

Thengel gritted his teeth. Looking away from her, he said, "Since Adan arrived in Minas Tirith."

Idhren's eyes rounded with disbelief. "A week! And you didn't tell me? Why?"

He gave her an exasperated look. "Because I wouldn't admit it to myself, even when I saw her at Merethrond. Idhren, there's no way I can pursue this. She's so young and too rooted here. If it wasn't for the crown, maybe…maybe."

"Poor dear." Idhren nudged his arm with hers. "However—"

"Idhren."

"However! If she can countenance moving to Dol Amroth…"

"It's not the same and you know it," he said angrily. "Consider the cultural differences. She can't speak Rohirric and so few of them speak Westron or Sindarin. I can't ask her to trade her home and everything she knows for that."

"You certainly can ask her. Let her decide what's she's willing to put up with. Say she loves you too - or could come to love you. Doesn't she deserve the choice?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

They fell silent again. The evening was passing and still he hadn't spoken to Ecthelion. Tomorrow would begin early for him and he needed to leave. But he felt unsettled by Idhren. Certainly he hadn't come to her home to make an admission.

"So," he croaked, "what are you going to do?"

"What do you want me to do?" she countered. "Besides what I've already done?"

"Nothing. I want you to leave it alone, Idhren. If I'm successful with Halmir it'll come to nothing anyway. This will pass."

"Pass? That is the last thing it will do!" Idhren gripped his arm. "Must you help her? I suggest you unpledge yourself."

He gave her a stern look. "You know very well I can't when I've given my word."

"Words are words are words," she sighed.

"Yes, and mine mean something to me."

"I know. You're so cursed noble."

He shook his head in frustration. "Idhren, how else do you expect me to behave?"

"Exactly as you are," she sighed, "though it's highly inconvenient to your cause."

Thengel didn't reply.

Finally Idhren rose. "Oh well. I'll think of something. Wynflaed refuses to speak to me so I'll have plenty of quiet to bend my mind to the matter. You know she accused me of singlehandedly destroying the House of Eorl?"

"Why?"

She grinned impishly. "Because she thinks I'm going to give you an ignorant child-bride with no experience and no backbone. I told her that was ridiculous. All Gondorian women have backbones. I can't help it if she doesn't believe me."

"Can't you?" he asked dryly.

"As if I have ever been untrustworthy in my life," she said, sounding bruised.

"You told Wynflaed that Lady Iaerwen was a potential match."

Idhren sniffed. "Lady Iaerwen has a gold hoard fit to make a dragon blush. She could buy you all the heirs you could ever want, even if she's too old to carry them herself. I stand by it."

"Idhren."

"Don't scold me, darling," she said, crossing the room to the door. "I'm not accustomed to it."

He followed her and opened the door for himself. "Wynflaed is coming to Lossarnach too, you know."

Idhren's eyes widened. "No. You mustn't let her. She'll spit Morwen and roast her for dinner."

"You want Wynflaed to stay here with you?" he asked.

"Don't look at me like that. You'll have a loose cannon on your hands now. Worry about yourself."

And so he was doing. A thought had come to him. Suppose he didn't shut down the gossip? If everyone expected him to betroth himself to Morwen, wouldn't it pull the rug out from under Halmir's feet? What mistakes would desperation persuade Halmir to make? Would it be better for Morwen to let the rumors stand? At least for a little while?

"Thengel, are you all right? You have such an odd look on your face."

He gave her a strangled smile. "Never better. Good night, Idhren."

"Aren't you going to say goodbye to Ecthelion?"

"No time now. You tell him for me."

She looked skeptical, but only said, "Good night, Thengel. Good luck."


	29. Homeward

Dineth woke Morwen before dawn with a tray of food. The maid laid out fresh riding clothes while Morwen ate, then she went downstairs to make sure that the kitchen had prepared something for her to take on the road. 

Aranel made an appearance at her bedroom door after Morwen finished dressing and had started to braid her hair. Her cousin sat on the bed, took in the stuffed traveling bag, the empty breakfast dishes on the table, and then she studied Morwen. 

“Are you all right? 

Morwen shrugged, losing her place. “I feel anxious.” 

She forgot where she was and starting braiding again. Turning her head at an angle, she tried to see if she’d twisted the plait. 

“At least you still have an appetite,” Aranel said with approval. “You’ll need it for the long day ahead. Here, let me help you with your hair.”

Morwen sat in the chair before the vanity as Aranel directed her and found to her surprise that Aranel proved adept at braiding. After all, Morwen knew Aranel didn’t have any sisters and she had grown up with a maid whose only purpose was to look after her appearance. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” Aranel said with a knowing smile as she watched Morwen in the mirror. “I hated being an only child and plan to have many daughters. Maybe a dozen.”

A dozen! Half so many sounded daunting. Morwen didn’t mind being an only child and she didn’t think she’d take to raising children. But then, life might surprise her. It certainly seemed to be doing so this year. But she shouldn’t get ahead of herself. Right now she had to wrangle with whether or not she’d have a home by next harvest. 

“Judging by your expression, you aren’t thinking about babies.” 

Morwen wrinkled her nose at herself in the mirror. “What am I going to find at home, Aranel? I don’t know what I’ll be without Bar-en-Ferin.” 

Aranel gave Morwen a sympathetic look. She tied the end of the braid with a ribbon, and then came around to sit on the chair arm. She slipped her arm around Morwen and squeezed her shoulder. “Take it from me, you were never the orchard, Morwen. You’ve always been yourself. That’s what you carry around with you, Bar-en-Ferin or no.” 

Perhaps, Morwen thought, but she’d rather be herself and still have the orchard. 

“Is Adrahil still angry?” she asked. 

Aranel nodded. “He’s squalling but it will pass.” 

“What’s it all about?” 

“He won’t say exactly, just that his hands are tied. And he isn’t pleased that he has to rely on Prince Thengel to help you instead of doing it himself.” 

Morwen looked up at her in surprise. “Why should he be displeased about Prince Thengel? I delayed you returning to Dol Amroth. If anything, this puts you closer to your original schedule.” 

“Oh, it’s pride probably. As for myself, I think it’s a good opportunity for you.” 

“For me?” 

“Yes, you. Why shouldn’t you be friends with Prince Thengel?” 

Morwen glanced down at her fingers in her lap. “What about the things Lady Idhren said yesterday?” 

Aranel frowned deeply and stood up. “Morwen, I wouldn’t give Idhren’s stories too much credit. She may have heard a passing comment and thought to tease you. Really, I think she was fishing for something and said whatever came into her head to get it out of you.” 

“Did she?” 

“Certainly. Did you notice how she jumped when Prince Thengel arrived?” 

Morwen played with the end of her braid. “I thought they were friends.” 

“They are. Very old friends. That’s what makes it so curious.” 

“What do you suspect she wanted?” 

“It hardly matters now. By this evening you’ll be home and all of this will be forgotten. Nobody remembers anything for long in Minas Tirith.” Aranel looked up and squinted. “Usually.” 

Dineth came in then and picked up Morwen’s bag from the floor. “The Prince is here, my lady. I’ll bring this down for you.”

“Thank you, Dineth,” Aranel said. Then to Morwen, “I’ll tell Adrahil to come down.” 

“Thank you.” 

Aranel handed her the cloak lying on the bed, adding, “you know, selfishly, I wish you were coming to Dol Amroth with us.” 

“I still may,” Morwen said as she got up from the chair. 

“Something tells me not to expect it.” 

“No?”

Aranel paused in the doorway. “No. I think Gondor is about to experience something it hasn’t since the Battle of Poros. Halmir doesn’t know what he’s in for.”

Morwen reflected on this as she went down alone to find the prince. 

…

Morwen stepped out into a gray world. A warm fog hung in the morning air. Alone in the courtyard, Thengel’s horse stood steaming. It watched her, ears twitching curiously. On the saddle, she saw a long, wrapped object tethered beside a winged helmet and the rest of his belongings. Morwen guessed what it might be and shuddered. But where was Thengel?

Morwen knew he wasn’t in the house. She walked around to the back of the courtyard deciding to try the stables. Outside, sitting idly on a bench beside the open door, she found the groom looking amused. His eyebrows shot up when he spotted her. 

“Have you seen Prince Thengel?” she asked him. 

The groom thumbed in the direction of the stable interior. “So’s my master.” 

So, Adrahil had beaten her out of the house. Had he been waiting for Prince Thengel while Aranel sat with her? She thanked the groom and stepped to the threshold before hearing Adrahil’s voice. 

“I think it’s ill advised for you to travel with her considering the attention you’ve drawn.” 

Morwen stepped back and out of view of the aisle before sharing a glance with the groom. The man grinned. She ignored him and listened again. 

“That’s all very well, but the Steward has taken a special interest in this case. Aranel and I have managed to keep Morwen in the dark on that score, at least.”

What! Morwen’s ears burned. She had half a mind to charge down the aisle and demand Adrahil to repeat himself to her. Kept her in the dark? A chortle near her elbow made her aware of the groom again. 

“Would you see to Prince Thengel’s horse, please?” she said coolly. 

The groom grunted. “I don’t mess with a Northerner’s horses. They’re particular.” 

“Well, make sure he doesn’t wander off.” 

He gave her an odd look. “Don’t know much about their horses, do you, my lady? That beast won’t go anywhere his master don’t want him to. Best trained beasts alive.” 

Morwen stared down her nose at him. “Find something else to do, then. You’ve heard more than you ought.” 

The man shrugged, got up, and chuckled as he disappeared toward the house. Morwen took his place on the bench and listened for an opportunity to break up the conversation. 

“Meanwhile, I’m being dismissed to Dol Amroth like an errand boy when I should be the one acting for Morwen. I don’t think I need to warn you to behave honorably toward her.” 

Morwen felt heat rushing to her cheeks and an urge to disappear back into the house with the groom. It deepened when she heard Thengel’s voice for the first time. 

“If you suggest again that I need the hint then you and I will have a problem, Prince Adrahil.” 

“I’m not trying to offend you. But I won’t deny that my conscience is far from clear in regard to any of this,” Adrahil replied gravely. “Circumstances being what they are, however, Morwen has plainly cast her lot in with you. I still don’t think it’s prudent.”

“So I’ve gathered. Good morning, Prince Adrahil. Wait. Pass me the soft brush. Thank you.” 

…

Morwen stood waiting with crossed arms when Adrahil appeared. She tried to will the blush on her cheeks to cool, but between embarrassment and anger, she doubted if she didn’t positively glow. He startled when he saw her.

“Morwen!” 

Morwen gave him a black look. “You’ve been keeping secrets.” 

Adrahil blinked at her. “Em.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What did you overhear?” 

She tossed her head, braid swinging, as she looked up at him. “I heard enough. So did the groom.” 

Adrahil grimaced as he looked around for the other guilty party, then back at her. “Look, I’m sorry. Aranel and I are only looking out for you.” 

“But you aren’t helping me look out for myself! If things are being said about my behavior then I should know about it.” 

“Well…” He looked at a point over her head. “I hadn’t thought of that.” 

“Nor are you helping me by threatening Prince Thengel on my behalf.”

Now Adrahil positively glowered. “He has to know you aren’t without protection. I mean, what does he have planned, Morwen?” 

“For what?” 

“For you!” 

“Me?” Morwen’s eyes flashed in contempt. “Adrahil, Halmir’s the one we should be worrying about. If Thengel—”

“Thengel, is it?” 

“Yes, Thengel. If he meant me harm he had ample opportunity last month in my home. Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” 

“Overreacting!” Adrahil sputtered. If he knew more than he was telling, he didn’t divulge it. What else should she think, then? 

“Yes,” she replied. “And if I want Thengel threatened I’ll do it myself.” Since she didn’t want to threaten him she felt she could afford the bravado. 

Adrahil threw up his hand as he walked past her. “Have it your way. He’s in there waiting for you.” 

Morwen watched Adrahil stamp his way across the gravel to the house torn between righteous anger and regret. She wished she knew what Turgon had done to upset her cousin’s equanimity so much. 

A wet breeze blew up from the south. Despite the rising heat and humidity, she shivered. Now that she’d vented her spleen, she realized Adrahil really did only want to protect her, even if he didn’t go about it in a manner she liked. Maybe she had been unfair? 

When she heard Thengel’s voice again, she turned away from the courtyard and entered the shadows of the stable. 

…

Morwen dropped her cloak on a hay bale near the groom’s alcove. Thengel had chosen to brush and saddle her mount in the back of the stables, explaining the idleness of Adrahil’s groom. She could see the back of his head and shoulders over the row of stalls toward the grooming area. She didn’t doubt he heard her footsteps, but he didn’t turn from his work. 

She silently made her way down the aisle, stopping at Briar’s stall. The gelding nudged her shoulder with his muzzle until she rubbed his cheeks and forehead. Adan had borrowed her horse to make the trip to Minas Tirith, but he had departed for Osgiliath and wouldn’t be coming back with them, according to Thengel. So Briar would have to stay in Minas Tirith for now until they had space again in her stables. They would be overcrowded with the addition of Wynflaed’s horse. 

Thengel resumed his murmuring and Morwen left Briar. She found a beam to lean on, watching his progress tacking up her horse. He wore a hauberk bearing the white tree and it seemed foreign on him. Although, the dust and hair that now coated him from his chest to his boots helped to mask the austerity of it. The lights filtered in through the dusty air and something in its quality made her see Thengel differently. Not the scholar, not the soldier. Who was he?

“Whom were you talking to?” she asked. 

Thengel glanced her way, looked mildly surprised by the question. “This fellow. Who else?” Thengel answered as he stroked the gelding’s neck, “What do they call you, friend?” 

“Strawberry,” Morwen answered. 

Thengel grimaced as he looked down at her and even the gelding looked shame-faced in the presence of Adrahil’s stallion, Morwen thought. She crossed her arms. 

“It’s a perfectly decent name for a farm horse.” Then she asked, “What is yours called, then?” 

“Rochagar.” 

Morwen pictured the stallion waiting in the courtyard, first struck by the Sindarin name and then by the meaning. “Do you always call your horses after carrion?” 

“Not always. My first horse was named Firewave in the Common tongue.”

“Speaking of fire,” she said, “What were you and Adrahil discussing earlier?”

Thengel adjusted Strawberry’s bridle, fingers moving by rote as they gently eased the forelock out from underneath the browband. He didn’t look at her. 

“He’s worried about you, that’s all.” 

Morwen brushed a fly away. “It sounded heated.” 

“How much did you hear?” 

“Oh, snippets. Not as much as the groom.” Then she said, “I met Adrahil outside after.” 

Thengel did look at her then. “Yes?” 

“I’ve just had my first quarrel with him.” 

“What about?” 

“I told him I’d threaten you myself if you required one.” 

Thengel looked away, but not before she saw the beginning of a grin. Was he laughing at her? 

“Let’s hope I don’t need one then,” he said. 

“Look, I may not be a shieldmaiden like your sister, but I have other resources.” She would have to think about what they were, but she felt certain she had them. 

“I believe you.” He held up his hands as if in surrender, and his eyes were wide and clear, no laughter in them now. “I just prefer not to test your resolve — or Adrahil’s. It’s been a very threatening morning and we have yet to leave the sixth circle.” He turned away again and attached the lead rope, then loosed the crossties. “All set here. Where are your things?” 

“Dineth will bring them down.” 

He nodded and half-heartedly attempted to brush himself off with one hand while holding the lead in the other. “Are you ready then? To deal with Halmir, I mean.” 

Morwen stepped out of the way as he led Strawberry into the aisle. “I guess so. But what can we do when we get home?” 

“I’ve been thinking about taking old Thunor and his wife as an example.” 

Morwen squinted at him. “Thunor?” 

“Do you remember the story?” 

Morwen shrugged as she followed him at a safe distance from Strawberry. “Some of it.” 

“Well, there you go.” 

“What?” Morwen paused next to Briar’s stall again and chewed on her lip. What did he plan to do? Read Halmir into a stupor? Put him to sleep for twenty years the way the enchantress had done to Thunor? 

Then she felt her stomach drop into her boots. It depended, she realized, on which character Thengel thought Halmir ought to be. 

“Didn’t Thunor slaughter the suitors?” 

Thengel looked back with a grin. She reached out for Briar and absentmindedly stroked his muzzle, feeling like she had grossly miscalculated in her choice of help. An unfortunate realization after she’d accused Adrahil of overreacting!

“But surely…” 

“You invited Wynflaed,” he reminded her, his voice dry as autumn leaves. “I’ll try to avoid slaughter, but I can’t make any promises for her.” Then Thengel lead Strawberry to the stable door. He turned once more when he didn’t hear her following. “Don’t look so worried. No one will die. Probably.”

Unhappily, she watched Thengel and Strawberry disappear into the fog. He had to be teasing her. 

“Well?” she heard him calling. “Come on!” 

“Goodbye, Briar.” Morwen kissed his nose, and then hurried out after Thengel, turning back once to retrieve her cloak.   
…

In the yard, Thengel checked the girth again, and then took Morwen’s bag of clothing, the supplies for Nanneth from the Warden, and a pouch of food and water from Dineth. Aranel appeared in the courtyard with Adrahil, who looked resigned. 

“Shake hands before I go,” Morwen said to him. “I don’t like to part after a quarrel.” 

He held her hand and squeezed it. “Neither do I.” 

“Safe journey, Morwen,” Aranel said as she pressed Morwen into a hug. “And don’t let Halmir get you down.” 

“I’ll try not to. Thank you, both.” Morwen wanted to say more, but she felt herself choking. She had spent most of the night eager to depart, but now that it was down to goodbyes she felt strangely reluctant to part with her cousins. Aranel’s friendship, especially, had surprised her with its warmth. Adrahil’s new wife had been ready to accept Morwen as her own as soon as she had stepped through the door.

“When will I see you again,” Morwen wondered as they walked toward the horses, “and where?” 

Adrahil’s eyes flicked briefly in Thengel’s direction. “Perhaps even at Lossemeren next year?”

“Yes, at Lossemeren,” Aranel agreed. “I refuse to countenance any other possibility.” 

Thengel helped Morwen mount Strawberry. While she turned the gelding round toward the gate, Thengel had disappeared inside the winged helmet that was hooked to the side of his saddlebag. Morwen felt a stab of regret at the transformation the simple helmet wrought on him, even if it did lend him some anonymity as they traveled through the city. She admitted he looked official. With his short hair she couldn’t tell he was anything but a Gondorian soldier. Somehow it made her sad - either because her country had swallowed him whole - or because he had wanted it to.   
…

The lower circles were more difficult for her to navigate as traffic increased. A backup of carts entering the city caused a bottleneck once they were passing through the markets. As the traffic increased, he seized her horse’s bridle. 

“Keep together.” 

The advantage of the crush was that they were not close enough to talk. 

“When will we join the others?” Morwen asked. 

“My uncle’s men have a camp on the Pelennor. Thurstan and Cenhelm have been staying with then. Gladhon will meet us there.”

“And Wynflaed will be there too?” 

He gave her a longsuffering look, only partially obscured by the helmet. “Yes, Wynflaed too.” 

“I thought you would be happy to have her along.”

He garbled something she couldn’t make out. 

Then she said, “Now that I’ve met her, I can’t see why you didn’t want to introduce us at the feast.” 

“My sister would only make things complicated,” he groused. “I prefer to keep our friendship unspoiled.”

“Unspoiled? I don’t understand.” 

He gave her a knowing look. “Has Aranel met Halmir yet?” 

Morwen’s stomach clenched at the thought. She would feel ashamed to introduce Aranel to a member of her family who could by no means make her proud. This one member in particular. 

“But Wynflaed can’t be as bad as Halmir, surely.” 

“Well, no, but listen, Morwen, Oswin and Wynflaed came to Minas Tirith with an agenda, which isn’t important, but it’s a good enough reason to keep clear of them. Sometimes one wants to enjoy something without it being framed by another person’s point of view.” 

“Keep it sacred, you mean?” 

He rewarded her with a smile beneath the helm. “Yes.” 

She did understand. It explained why she felt so deeply troubled whenever Halmir talked about Randir these days, as if they had a bond that didn’t include Morwen. One that seemed to diminish her own bond. It was like spreading slime over her memory of her father. 

He laughed, just one clear note. “Of course, I hadn’t reckoned on you inviting her along,” he said dryly. 

“She invited herself,” Morwen reminded him. “I simply agreed, which seemed like the best course of action.” 

Thengel looked puzzled. “How?” 

“You see,” she said with a grin, “I have no sword.” 

“As if Wynflaed would use hers on you.” 

“How would I know? I’ve never met a shieldmaiden before and you make her sound unbalanced.” 

“She is unbalanced! You’ve only seen her on her best behavior.” 

“Well then, in future, if you’re going to have plans, you might want to include all relevant parties in the details. I had no idea you wanted me to snub her.” 

“Hm.” 

“Of course, I probably wouldn’t have listened to you if you had.” 

“I figured as much.” 

They rode on a ways before Morwen spoke again, this time more seriously. “But then I really do think it would be cruel to separate you when she’s come all this way. Is your relationship with Wynflaed that strained?” 

Thengel leaned toward her and lowered his voice. Instinctively she leaned in too. “Morwen, there is a lot of pain in my family, most of which we’ve brought on ourselves. Fengel has always used a divide and conquer strategy to keep us at odds with each other instead of with him.” He gave her a grim smile. “I was especially prone to fall for it, which isn’t a surprise to anyone who watched me grow up. Fritha and Wynflaed were so much older than I that even as children we’d never been close. She’s almost a stranger. Do you see why we wouldn’t seek one another’s company?”

Morwen frowned into the distance, thinking. They had to stop to allow a cart to turn around in a crowd of pedestrians eager to get in the driver’s way. Thengel urged Rochagar forward and made a path for them when the chance presented itself, scattering a few of the more daring citizens getting underfoot. Then he slowed so she could ride up beside him again. 

“But you’re adults now,” she continued as if the flow of conversation hadn’t been broken. “Your father doesn’t have the same power over you that he did when you were children. Have they really never come to see you before now?”

“Just Oswin. When he’s in Rohan, he writes for my family,” he replied. When she looked puzzled, he said, “The Riddermark has no written language, Morwen. Most haven’t learned to speak Westron, let alone to write it. My mother can’t do either. If Fritha can, she doesn’t bother.”

“And Wynflaed?” 

He shrugged. “I don’t think she’s heard the adage about the pen and the sword.” 

“All the more reason to visit.” 

“I doubt they were permitted,” he told her, “if they ever desired to.” 

Morwen stared at him. “But why?” 

“I’m in exile, Morwen, not on holiday,” he groused despite an obvious effort to be patient. 

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. 

Thengel relented, softening his expression. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” 

“I know,” she murmured. “But still I’m sorry. I wish you could have an Adrahil and an Aranel.” 

“Don’t worry about me,” he replied stiffly. “I have Ecthelion and Idhren.”

Idhren. Morwen held her tongue, but questions swarmed through her mind like bees in a hive. 

…

Beyond the great gates, a mile or so down the road where the public fields lay, Morwen saw tents pitched in a series of rings. The road sloped gently downward toward the bottom of the river valley and so she had an overhead view. The orderliness of the camp struck Morwen, in contrast to the disarray of the squatters parked on her own property. She wondered if any of Halmir’s thugs had managed to burn down the entire valley in her absence. 

Fair-haired men and even a few women gathered in small groups around the perimeter of the tents over cooking fires and makeshift tables. Near a stand of trees beyond the tents, she saw two dozen horses, perhaps more, being fed and watered. 

A breeze carried the scent of wood smoke and dewy grass and frying sausage. It also carried snatches of disembodied voices from the tents as people greeted one another or perhaps complained. Morwen had to guess because they were speaking in Rohirric. 

“Who are they?” Morwen whispered. 

“Oswin’s retinue.” 

“Why don’t they stay in the city?” 

“No room for all the horses. They won’t stay far from them.” Then he added, “and, like you, they don’t care for Mundburg. Too confining.” 

She blinked at him. “Mundburg?” 

His cheek muscle ticked as he answered, “Excuse me, Minas Tirith.” 

“Oh.” 

Thengel led her off the road toward the tents. The chatter around the camp died away as the nearest riders silently regarded them with inscrutable expressions. Thengel greeted them first in Westron, then in Rohirric, she suspected for her benefit. Some of them replied in kind, but most chose only to bow their heads, somehow managing not to take their eyes off of him while they did. Their behavior struck her as odd, perhaps even diffident. 

Then she saw light. Thengel’s hauberk! The riders were seeing their crown prince, perhaps for the first time, and he bore the device of the White Tree of Gondor. She felt the blood leave her cheeks. What had possessed him to wear it? After all, he wasn’t on official business for Steward Turgon or Captain Ecthelion. 

And yet, not a small amount of their attention rested on her, too. She felt their curiosity, palpable like little brushes of leaves when passing through hedge. Their interest made her uncomfortable when she thought of Adrahil’s words to Thengel. What did they make of their prince riding up with her in tow? 

With a great sense of relief, Morwen recognized Cenhelm in the group. He approached them by way of the tents with a look of plain displeasure. That’s how she remembered him looking all the time, so she hoped maybe he had missed the hauberk. 

To her surprise, she heard herself hailed. Focusing on Cenhelm, she hadn’t seen the Marshal coming from the other direction to broadside her. He appeared and she found her hand seized once more. She’d never had her hand clasped and shaken and patted so often since she met Thengel and his compatriots. 

Morwen shifted in the saddle as Strawberry sidled uneasily. “Good morning, Marshal…” 

“How fresh you look this morning, Lady Morwen.” He patted her hand, but didn’t let it go. “No, don’t dismount. We won’t delay you. So, it’s a full day’s ride, eh?” 

“Yes—” 

“Wynflaed tells me you’ve invited her. That’s gracious of you.” 

Thengel made a face, which Morwen decided to ignore. “I’m sorry to rob you of —” 

“No, no! Don’t think of it,” he said lightly. “I can spare them well enough.”

As grateful as she felt for the sentiment, she wished Oswin would let her complete a sentence! 

Cenhelm reached them then and bowed his head. He eyed the hauberk with a jaundiced expression. 

“The others are tacking up, my lord.” 

“Thank you, Cenhelm.” 

“I’m ready.” 

They turned in their saddles to look behind them and saw Wynflaed, dressed and mounted on her own horse. 

“Hello, Morwen. Who’s this Gondorian lieutenant you’ve brought with you? I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

“Wynflaed,” Thengel warned. 

Wynflaed cocked her head to the side, studying him. “Remind me, which throne are you supposed to sit on one day?” 

“Wynflaed,” Oswin and Thengel said in unison. 

“Don’t distress Lady Morwen with your bickering,” Oswin continued. “Where are your manners?” 

Wynflaed pulled a sour face. “Never had much time for those. Still. I think he’s got a lot of nerve showing up here with that tree emblazoned to his chest. What makes you think we’d stand for it?” 

“If I’m to impress my authority on the minds of those men from Lossarnach, then I must dress to remind them where my authority comes from. Or would you have me jeopardize Morwen’s business?” 

Morwen cringed. She didn’t want to be in the middle of a family dispute. She had enough of that on her own! 

“Of course not,” Oswin surprised her by saying. “Wynflaed, use your head.” 

“You must see how it looks to the men,” Wynflaed retorted. 

Thengel’s eyes were icy blue and narrowed. “I serve the Steward. That’s exactly how it looks. If you don’t like it, take it up with Oswin. He arranged it.” 

“You couldn’t have covered it up with a cloak for a quarter of an hour until we left?” Wynflaed retorted. 

Oswin spoke to them in his own language and whatever he said quieted them immediately. 

“There’s the other two now,” Cenhelm said. 

Morwen followed the direction of his gaze to find Thurstan and Gladhon riding up to join them. Then she tried to free her hand. 

“Goodbye, Marshal.” 

“Goodbye, dear Lady Morwen. Good health to you. Pleasant journey.” 

She managed to get her hand back and the Marshal waved his farewell to the rest. 

…

 

Morwen felt more at ease once the Rammas Echor disappeared behind them and the rising sun dispersed the morning mist and shadows. As they journeyed along the road, the fine spring weather they had enjoyed began to give way to piled gray clouds and brooding air coming up from the south. It felt heavy with damp that stuck to Morwen’s skin, hair and clothes. She could smell the promise of wet dirt and green. 

“Another thunderstorm?” she wondered. 

“Feels like it,” Thengel replied, dourly. 

The South Road left them exposed to the elements, but they would be no safer under cover of the greenway when they reached it. Thengel urged his mount into a canter. Morwen followed suit. They rode in silence. At first, Morwen wondered if she should try to break it, longing to ask him about what they had experienced back at the camp, but something in his face suggested he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. 

Behind them, Thurstan and Wynflaed bantered back and forth. Morwen caught snatches of words that sounded familiar, but they disappeared into the flow of unknown words before she could make sense of them. She enjoyed it, trying to guess what they might be discussing based on their tone and inflection. Hearing a different language felt fresh on her ears. 

Morwen noticed Thengel glancing over his shoulder at the others more than once, lips pressed into a grim line, as if irritated by the sound of his native language. Wynflaed laughed at something Cenhelm said as he joined in the conversation too, and that seemed to grate his nerves more. 

“Gentlemen,” Thengel called over his shoulder, “Wynflaed, kindly speak in a language we can all understand.”

“Thank you,” she thought she heard Gladhon mutter. 

The mood shifted immediately and his men fell into stony silence. Wynflaed eyes grew wide and rebellious. Morwen hid a cringe, regretting the loss of merriment. 

“I don’t mind,” she whispered. 

Thengel glared at her, before he realized it. “Well, I do. It’s disrespectful.”

Wynflaed rode up beside Morwen. She leaned over her horse’s neck to speak to Thengel. “It won’t kill the Gondorians to hear some Rohirric ever now and again.”

“Wynflaed,” he warned, with a stormy look in his eyes to match hers. 

“It won’t. Truly. Guthere taught me a few phrases and I’d like to know more. I’ve heard so little about Rohan,” Morwen admitted, calling his attention toward herself before Wynflaed could spar with him more. Honestly, she felt like she was intervening between Gundor and Beldir again! 

The deflection work. Thengel snorted, but with humor. “That’s true,” he replied. “How did it go? You demanded who in Arda did I think I was and then you boldly proclaimed that you were not familiar with Rohan’s princes.” 

Morwen blushed, recalling the day they met. “You acted like I should know! I felt defensive — and nervous.” 

He gazed at her, incredulous. “You never were.” 

“Yes, I was.” 

“You didn’t show it.” 

Morwen sat up straighter in the saddle. “That doesn’t mean I wasn’t. It didn’t help that you put me on the spot. I was nervous and nauseous! And a little afraid.” 

Thengel whistled. “Well, you must have remarkable self-possession. But really, I don’t believe you at all.” 

“Why not?”

Thengel cut the air in front of them with his hand. “You sailed into the room as if foreigners must bring their bloody compatriots to you every day. That didn’t look like fear to me.” 

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that what you see and what I feel might be two different things?” Morwen pointed out. Did he think she’d display fear to a stranger? “In truth, I am often afraid.” 

Perhaps now he did consider it. He took off his helmet and looked at her again. “Afraid of what?” 

Morwen stared at the road ahead, while she thought. Normally she would have deflected the question, but now it seemed important that he had a true picture of her. “Mostly? Of failing to live up to my parents. Occasionally,” she gave him a look, “of impudent strangers. Lately, of being controlled.” 

“By Halmir?” he clarified. 

“Certainly by him.”

“Morwen, you can handle blood and impudent, inconsequential princes, you don’t have to worry about Halmir.” 

“I didn’t say you were inconsequential, just that I’d never heard of you. There are many people I’ve never heard of — including my own relations. I can tell you, remaining ignorant of them takes great effort when your father is a consummate genealogist.” 

“All right,” he said, putting his helmet back on. “Impudent princes unknown in the valleys, then.” 

“If you like,” she answered primly. 

Wynflaed had ridden beside Morwen all the while, listening intently whenever Thengel spoke to her. Whatever she thought of their conversation, she kept hidden behind a bland frown. They only noticed her until after she coughed. Then Thengel seemed to tire of talking. He rode ahead of them and Wynflaed began asking her questions about everything she saw. She wanted to know the names of the high-coned flowers peeking out from the broad-leaved shrubs that grew beneath the colonnade of trees lining the road. The forest rose and fell around them where the road cut between the foothills and the river and she wanted to know their names too. 

…

They stopped for a brief meal off the road before they began the second half of their journey. Morwen would’ve liked a longer rest. Her muscles had grown too used to lounging around on Aranel’s sofas in the last week and the saddle wasn’t forgiving. If she had asked, she knew Thengel would’ve granted her the longer respite, but Wynflaed looked as unflagging as ever, so Morwen decided to grin and bear it. Even if Gildis would have to use a pulley to get her out of bed in the morning, she wouldn’t admit their pace was too much. 

As the afternoon disappeared behind heavy clouds, the forest thinned and the hills smoothed out into the great plain of Lossarnach spread before them. Only to the west where the slim fingers of the White Mountains delved southward into the land did the hills remain. Thengel reined in Rochagar when the greenway and the walls of Imloth Melui came into view, though still several miles distant. He motioned for Morwen to ride up beside him. Wynflaed followed closely behind. 

“We were supposed to ride directly to Arnach,” he confessed, “this is where I decided to ride into Imloth Melui. I don’t know what came over me. I saw the odd, overgrown road, the coolness beneath the trees and thought, why not?” 

With a strange twinge, she realized how slight were the chances of their ever meeting. He might have ridden on and her life would be very different at this moment. For the worst, she thought. His? Well, he’d probably be a lot more comfortable, not to mention poor Guthere. 

“For a whim, it certainly put you through a lot of trouble,” she reflected. 

“It did,” he agreed, though he smiled at her. “But it has its bright points.” 

Morwen’s eyebrow arched in her disbelief. “Yes, I can see that. Now you have twice as much trouble by borrowing mine. Remind me why?” 

Thengel adjusted his grip on the reins, hesitating. Then he looked at her. “Well, maybe I want to be known, after all.” 

Shaking her head, Morwen urged Strawberry onward. “Let’s hope the price of fame isn’t too dear.” 

“No fear,” she heard him mutter. 

…

A warm drizzle caught them at the mouth of the greenway, increasing to a steady downpour. The path lay in shadow under the cloud cover. They stopped under a thick stand of trees to dig out hooded cloaks, Thengel and Gladhon’s the silver green of Ithilien, Wynflaed and the others wore the deep green of Rohan. Morwen picked a piece of hay off her own gray cloak before wrapping it around her shoulders and pulling the hood low over her face. 

The birds and small forest animals had abandoned the tree limbs and a strange quiet pervaded the forest, except for an unfamiliar, rhythmic echo Morwen couldn’t place. They road quietly as if not to disturb the wood around them. She could not tell if the wood or the travelers were to blame for the tension beneath the leaves. Either way, the wood and the travelers seemed to feed it. 

“Do you hear that?” Morwen murmured. 

“I hear it,” Thengel answered grimly. 

He urged Rochagar into a canter and Strawberry obediently followed suit.


	30. Into the Fray

The downpour ended, though the clouds were still spitting on the travelers. With relief, Morwen saw the thatched roof of Bar-en-Ferin through a break in the trees. Her sore back seemed to ache twice as hard at the sight of home. She had to swallow back her longing to jump out of the saddle and waddle the rest of the way. Strawberry, sensing their arrival, began to trot past Rochagar down the road, eager for the oats awaiting him. Just as eager, Morwen allowed the gelding to set the pace.

But Strawberry's quest was delayed again in the yard. Thengel caught up to them as they rode through a sea of men milling around in the dooryard. Her eyes burned and only then did she realize how badly she wished that Halmir and all his folk had chosen to vanish in her absence. But here they stood, staring at her with strange expressions on their faces; none of them choosing to make room for her or for Thengel. They formed a physical wall but Morwen sensed another layer, a will that didn't want want them there.

But the wall broke apart when the rest of Morwen's traveling companions rode into the yard. Though only six in number, most of her party consisted of Rohirric warriors and were, therefore, unknown quantities in the minds of these Lossarnach men who hadn't traveled much further beyond their own farms. This gave Morwen's folk a momentary advantage.

"Lady Morwen — ow — you've returned!"

"Gundor?"

Morwen dismounted as the boy dashed toward her as best he could. Gasps and exclamations of pain punctuated his progress through the crowd. She saw for herself as a disembodied elbow popped out and jostled him in the side. Thengel had also dismounted and handed the reins to Thurstan so he could step further into the cluster with a look that dared anyone else to harass the boy.

When Gundor reached them, he bent over, breathless. Morwen touched his shoulder while he gulped air.

"I thought I saw you coming down the road," he said between gasps. "Guthere made me keep watch. We didn't know when you'd come back."

Morwen knelt down and spoke softly, "What's going on here?"

"It's bad." Gundor wiped his nose on his sleeve. "They've locked men in the barn."

Morwen shot up to full height. "What!"

Behind Gundor, the crowd shuffled on their feet as she reacted, like an erratic breeze rattling the long grass. Their individual faces held no meaning for her, but she could sense their collective mood as they gauged hers. Uneasiness and hostility filled the yard like a fog.

"Tell us what happened," Thengel murmured.

Gundor cringed as if he feared to say more, but he didn't dare ignore a command. "They wouldn't take Halmir's part and now they're in the barn."

Shocked, Morwen looked to Thengel to gauge his reaction, but she couldn't read it. Whatever he felt, he guarded. For herself, she heard the words but her mind wouldn't absorb their meaning.

"Show us," she told Gundor.

"Hold a moment." Thengel untethered the wrapped object from his saddle, ordering Gladhon and Thurstan to mind the horses. Though bound, Morwen shivered at the potential contained within the sword.

What had they come home to?

When Thurstan and Gladhon led the horses away toward the paddock, Thengel's fingers brushed her arm.

"Let's go."

…

More than one fellow turned toward the house as Morwen followed Gundor. With her senses bent on the strangers around her, she felt barely aware of Thengel's presence at her side. Cenhelm and Wynflaed came behind, silent but for the crunch of gravel beneath their boots. The crowd split for them and few lingered near the barn.

She also noticed the chain and lock, which bound the wide doors. Two men were posted there, each bearing makeshift cudgels. The sentinels shifted uneasily in their boots as Morwen approached. She noticed them whispering to one another, perhaps taking counsel about what to do. Their indecision reassured Morwen.

"What is your business here?" she asked them.

They glanced at one another. The guard on the left looked younger than she did!

"We have orders from Lord Halmir to guard these prisoners until he can hand them over to the proper authorities so that justice may be done to them," the guard on the right answered.

"Justice?" Morwen hissed. "This is a barn, not a dungeon. What right does Lord Halmir have to imprison anyone here? What are these men charged with?"

"Well, he said…"

"Unbolt the door and stand down."

The guards looked at one another, uncertain. Thengel had been quietly unwrapping his sword all the while and the two sentinels had taken notice of the weapon. Their cudgels looked paltry in comparison, especially when Lady Morwen's other companions were also armed.

"Do as Lady Morwen has bidden you," he said softly.

The guards decided to listen to Prince Thengel and Morwen felt a tug of irritation as they scrambled to unlock the barn door. Did she need a sword to assert her authority in her own home?

When the doors opened, though, she forgot her irritation.

"I'm not going in there," she heard Gundor say.

"Then wait out here with Halmir's friends," she snapped.

Gundor gulped and followed her into the shadows. The barn reeked of stale urine and filthy bodies, which puzzled and alarmed her. Morwen had never kept animals in this barn, because they stored the harvest here until it could be carried to markets in Arnach and Minas Tirith. Her eyes had to adjust to the difference in light before she saw that the reek came from a circle of men on the floor. Each lay bound by the hands and feet, left to wallow in their own filth. Morwen fought to hide the suddenly revulsion pulsing through her.

One of them she recognized immediately. With a cry, she ran forward to Beldir's side, careful of the leg protruding straight before him, stiff and dirty in the splint and wrappings Adan had used on the day he broke the limb.

"Morwen, don't come near me." He raised his bound arms, as if he could ward her off that way. "The mess…"

"As if I cared about that," she hissed as she supported his shoulders so he could sit up. "Are you hurt?"

Beldir grunted something but wouldn't meet her eye. He swayed as the blood rushed to his head. He cradled his head in his palms, his face twisted in pain. Morwen could see his temples throb, so she continued to hold him until he steadied, breathing through her mouth as she tried to ignore the body odor.

Silently, Wynflaed dropped on her knee beside Morwen, offering her a knife to cut Beldir's bonds. Cenhelm and Thengel busied themselves around the circle doing the same. She wanted to linger over Beldir, who looked even more gaunt than usual; but Wynflaed spoke in her ear, reminding her that others were in the same bad shape and needed her help. So she left him in order to free the next man, another Arnach soldier she didn't know. He mumbled his thanks as he grubbed his mangled wrists, but wouldn't look up. Anger seared in her chest. Why should these men be ashamed to be seen by her in such a state when Halmir had mistreated them? It was Halmir's shame, not theirs.

"Beleg!" she heard Thengel growl in surprise and anger, as she moved to the last bound man. She watched him kneel by his friend and carefully help him up. "What happened here?"

Morwen recognized the man from Lossemeren whom Thengel had introduced to her, the one who had limped all the way from Arnach on Halmir's orders.

"We tried to stop them," Beleg croaked in a hushed tone, as if speaking for Thengel's ears only, "but they were too many. Lord Halmir ordered them to locked us in here."

"How long?"

Beleg shook his head. "I don't know."

"Four days ago," Gundor told them, looking over his shoulder to see if any of Halmir's men overheard him. "Mama wanted to bring them food and water, but Lord Halmir wouldn't let her."

"You've had nothing in all that time?" Morwen gasped.

No one would answer her. Her eyes met Thengel's and she could see he looked as enraged as she felt. So, they'd been left to mess themselves and slowly die of dehydration and hunger. How could Halmir allow such a thing to happen? In Imloth Melui no less.

"Gundor, bring water from the well. Now."

He ran off to obey while they finished freeing the last of the prisoners and inspected their wounds. When the boy returned, Morwen took the bucket to share out the water, starting with Beleg. She knelt down and handed him the dipper. His hands cupped its simple wooden bowl as if it were a golden goblet.

"What did you try to stop?" Morwen asked him while he drank deeply of the cool water.

Beleg flinched away from her gaze and returned the dipper. She offered the water to his neighbor, but didn't move, waiting for a reply.

"Go on, Beleg," Thengel said gently.

Beleg grimaced down at the hands in his lap. "It's the trees, Lady Morwen."

She stood up slowly. "What about them?"

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "Lord Halmir ordered them cut down the morning after he found out you'd left with Adan."

"My trees?" Morwen's mind darted back down the greenway to the sound she'd heard drifting toward them like an echo. "Where?"

Beldir grimaced but said nothing.

"Where are they cutting down trees?" she repeated. "Beldir."

The overseer bowed his head. "They started at the top of the orchard first."

Someone caught the bucket as it slipped from her arms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Thengel reaching for her and she recoiled from the contact.

"Morwen, wait!" he called after her.

But she had already picked up her riding skirts to run.

…

Careless of everything around her, men had to jump out of Morwen's way as she sprinted through the yard. She heard the sound that had carried through the forest earlier and recognized it for what it was. The thunk of metal biting wood felt like a blow that landed in her own chest.

Several more of Halmir's men loitered around the orchard gates but they made no attempt to stop her. She slipped on the wet grass near the dais, scrambling on her knees before getting to her feet again. Her knee throbbed where it had landed on a stone.

None of the cherry trees were harmed and she met no one until she began to crest the hill. There, Morwen's imagination had done little justice compared to the reality of Halmir's treachery.

At the top of the orchard, the ground looked like a stubble field under a magnifying glass. Dark stumps stared nakedly at the overcast sky where a quarter of the apple trees had fallen in the exact spot where Halmir's blueprints had indicated for his future guesthouse. The grass around the stumps lay trodden down in the mud along with a cover of small shredded leaves where the ceaseless traffic of men's boots and dragged tree trunks had carved crooked paths in the soft earth.

Morwen's lifeless legs gave out and she sank onto her knees in the mud. Her breath seemed to hitch on her ribs before reaching her throat, stopping the air and any sound. The trees might as well have been people, for the rush of horror and grief she felt. Beautiful, healthy trees that had grown tall in the valley, felled for no other purpose than one man's profit. Tears stung the back of her eyes. Her throat burned with rising bile.

Then she heard voices nearer the wall and one she recognized. She stumbled toward them until she found the owners of the voices near a pile of green branches and trunks that lay smoldering and smoking on the damp earth. One man bent over it, trying impotently to coax the fire into a blaze.

A half-naked man with straggly hair and a wandering beard stood locked with two others in a fierce argument. Their tools were fortunately propped up against another pile of unshorn tree trunks and not in their hands, else the artist might also have come to grief.

The axemen's voices were punctuated with the swing and strike of several more men who were busying themselves by stripping the fallen trees of their branches with handsaws or splitting down the trunks with axes.

Seeing Teitherion somehow gave Morwen renewed strength as she stumbled into the scene. At least someone in the valley had the courage to fight for the orchard. Where was the miller or any of the families that had shared the Lossemeren meal with her just last month?

Morwen didn't care that they were working on trees that had already fallen. She rushed foolishly at the nearest axeman, reaching to stop the fall of his axe. He saw her just in time to avoid bringing the handle down on her head.

"Stupid girl," he cursed, yanking the handle out of her grip and throwing her to the ground. "Watch it or you'll get the blade instead of the shaft next time."

Teitherion noticed her then and a look of horror crossed his wrinkled face. One of the men pushed him away before grabbing his own axe and striding toward her with menace in his eyes. Then just as suddenly, he stopped and backed away.

Morwen felt herself being scooped up from the ground, then left to totter till she found her feet again. Thengel plucked the axe out of the first man's hand, sinking its blade into the dirt. He grabbed the man's tunic.

"That's Lady Morwen, you fool," he growled. "Show some respect."

Her assailant's arms wheeled to maintain his balance when Thengel let him go with a shove, but even so he fell and scuttled away as quickly as he could.

Morwen stared at Thengel in amazement as Wynflaed and Cenhelm and Gundor appeared by her side. She could see a vein pulsing along his throat and his eyes blazed like a lion's. His sword hung by his side now and one hand brushed the hilt. Here stood Ecthelion's lieutenant, she thought, and his anger filled the arbor.

"The lot of you, clear off," he ordered. "There's nothing to do here."

The other axemen who had ignored the initial scuffle with Teitherion, lowered their axes and handsaws, but didn't move from their spots.

Thengel eyes them with contempt. "Landaer, is that you?" he said. One of them flinched and hung his head. "Megoron, too?" One by one, Thengel called out the names of the men he recognized, Ithilien soldiers who had served Hardang. A terrible chill threaded his voice as he asked them, "What have you done here?"

"We're under orders from Lord Halmir to clear this acre of trees before the week's out," one of the more belligerent of the men ventured. He had been the second arguing with Teitherion.

"You have new orders, if you value your skulls," said Thengel with deadly certitude that promised unpleasant things. "Halmir isn't the Lord of Lossarnach and he has no claim to this land."

The authority in his tone compelled the soldiers. They were the first to clear out of the arbor. Deserted by their comrades, the others loyal to Halmir soon followed.

When they were alone, Morwen sank down onto one of the stumps.

"It's a sorry welcome, your ladyship."

"Oh Teitherion," she moaned, staring around her in dismay.

"When Gildis sent word to me that they bound Beldir I tried to stop them. I have been here every day this week," Teitherion said, voice laden with self-reproach. "But what are a dozen against so many?"

She noticed the bruises on his face then and she wondered how badly they had beaten him over the week. That Halmir didn't fear him, she knew, or she would have found him in the barn as well.

"You could do nothing," she told him. "This is my punishment for leaving."

Teitherion nodded. "I fear that may be true."

Thengel plucked the axe out of Gundor's hand, which the boy had picked up after its owner abandoned it. With a growl he buried its head into the dirt. Somewhat relieved he turned to Morwen.

"Halmir has to answer for this."

"Yes, but how?"

Some of the fire left his eyes and he looked away. Neither of them had the answer. Morwen bit the inside of her cheek until the blood came, warm and metallic. She would not cry here, if she could just breathe for a moment and think. Wynflaed and Cenhelm wandered around, looking at the extent of the damage and her eyes followed them without seeing much. Her knee throbbed and she focused on it instead of the ache in her heart. Mud and debris covered her skirts and she found more than one tear in the fabric.

She felt the warm pressure of Thengel's hand on her shoulder. "Morwen, you're wet through," he said. "Come, there's nothing left to do here tonight. Beldir and the others still need to be cared for."

"You left them alone?" she heard herself say.

"No, Thurstan and Gladhon are with them, but they'll need help moving the men into the house."

Morwen nodded, willing herself to rise. When the resolve came, she welcomed it with a shiver.

…


	31. The Turn of the Tide

Morwen had no solid memory of the walk down through the orchard to the house, just an impression of Thengel on one side and Wynflaed on the other. Everything else dissolved into shadows in the back of her mind.

No one noticed at first, when she slipped through the hall doors. From the looks of it, the household had just finished the evening meal. Morwen saw Gildis directing the kitchen girls with the removal of what looked like an enormous feast. There were stacks of platters, the remains of a roast pig, piecrusts, broken bread, soup tureens, and bottles of wine strewn about the tables.

Thengel stepped around her. He gave a nod toward Guthere across the hall where the rider stood apart from Halmir's men. His expression of relief at seeing Thengel was tempered by disgust at his surroundings.

Morwen picked Halmir out from the crowd, lounging in her father's chair - her chair - by the fireplace. She couldn't spot Hundor anywhere.

"Morwen, you needn't stand on the threshold like a stranger," Halmir drawled." He looked unconcerned to see her back and a delighted leering grin spread over his face. "Come in. My house is your house."

Morwen took a convulsive step toward her cousin, fingers curling into fists, but Thengel hooked his hand around her elbow and pulled her to his side.

"Where are you going?" he murmured.

"I'm going to cut his heart out with a trowel."

Thengel gave her a sidelong glance. "Nobody dies today," he whispered in her ear. "Leave that kind of justice for the Steward."

"Why?" Morwen's voice dripped with acid and she flashed so hot a glare in his direction that he let go of her arm. "Whose side are you on?"

"Yours, of course," he murmured tersely. "Don't be foolish. In case you haven't noticed, we're still outnumbered."

She made a sound deep in her throat that was drowned out by the sound of Beleg and his friends slouching into the hall by the help of Thurstan and Gladhon. Halmir grimaced at the noxious odor they brought with them.

Teitherion came in last, loaded down with Morwen and Thengel's baggage. Thengel snatched them away from the artist, who looked glad to be rid of the weight. He tugging down the short end of the tunic, which barely covered, is long, knobby legs when he noticed Gildis nearby.

"So, it's true," Halmir said. "You've undermined my authority by releasing these men. They're awaiting justice."

"Justice, is it?" Thengel called out. "Locking up good men with disregard to natural law and then leaving them in such a state of filth and ill-feeding they can barely stand on their own? After what you've done, it would behoove you to get out of the lady's way."

Halmir rose, frowning, and stepped toward them. Morwen stared with distaste at the indentation in the cushion that Halmir had left behind in her father's chair.

"Why, what have I done except exercise my authority as regent?" he asked with a flimsy wave of his pale hand that reminded her of a dying bird. "Forgive me, I forgot to ask if you had a pleasant journey," Halmir said cheerfully, as he leaned against the hearth. "You know if you wished to travel to Minas Tirith, you might have asked me, Morwen, as your kinsman and the one with your interests nearest to heart."

Morwen's mouth went dry. His cloying solicitude contrasted with the brutality of his axemen broke something in her mind. What was wrong with her? She felt chilled and her thoughts seemed to fly away from her. She couldn't answer him.

"Sounds like good reasons to leave you behind," Thengel muttered loudly enough for all to hear. Someone from Halmir's side snickered then was viciously hushed by his friends.

Halmir's eyebrows arched as he observed the Prince with distaste. "Oh? What business did you have traveling with an unwed woman?"

"My own," Thengel replied.

Halmir fingers kneaded the air as if he longed to form them into fists but knew it would ruin his attempt to appear nonchalant. "Enlighten me."

Ignoring Halmir, Thengel addressed the crowd. "You lot, it's time to clear out. Your comrades whom you've abused are sick and in need of care and you're in the way. Outside. Now."

"Any man who obeys this impudent foreigner will share the same fate as Beleg's rebels," Halmir threatened.

The men hesitated, weighing whether Halmir's threat or Prince Thengel's authority would bite them the worst if disobeyed. More than one eye noticed the White Tree embossed on Thengel's chest and the allusion to his deputation under Ecthelion.

"He's bluffing," Thengel told them.

Halmir would've flayed Thengel alive with his eyes, if possible. "I want that man arrested."

Thengel surprised them all by laughing, a carefree sound that rang in the rafters. "By all means, arrest me. Turgon will find that very interesting."

"Prince Thengel!" Cenhelm rebuked.

Impotent, Halmir flushed and glowered, but couldn't do anything against such a visible symbol of power. He fled from the hall down the passage shouting for Hundor. Morwen stared after him, nerveless and empty. One by one the men from Arnach began to drift toward the doors, the pleasantness and glut of the feast greatly diminished now that the real mistress of the house had arrived. Those with a scrap of conscience left that wasn't befuddled by wine left first. Her cousin's soldiers parted around her and none would meet her eyes.

When the hall was clear, Gildis and Hareth both returned from the kitchen. "What should we do now?" Gildis asked Thengel.

Morwen blinked stupidly. Why would Gildis ask Thengel? And yet, she felt as if she were standing on the outside of the hall, looking in. Her body wouldn't respond to her.

"These men need a wash and some food," he told Gildis and Hareth.

"What about Lord Halmir and his ruffians?" Hareth asked.

"Take care of the sick first. We'll worry about the others later."

"Yes, my lord."

"Guthere, Cenhelm, with me. Wynflaed, stay with Morwen, will you?" she heard Thengel order.

Morwen watched Thengel leave the hall for the study. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Come on. Sit down before you fall down." Wynflaed pushed her into the chair beside the fireplace that Halmir had vacated.

"I'm fine," she managed to say.

"No, you're in shock or something like it."

Morwen slowly raised her eyes to meet Wynflaed's. The shieldmaiden looked less than impressed. Morwen ducked her head.

"I'm sorry."

Wynflaed's eyes rolled. "Shut up."

She found a blanket and threw it over Morwen's shoulders. "First, warm up. Then drink, then eat, then move," she ordered, her voice brusque. "You'll be fine — and the sooner the better. These men are worse off than you and need help."

A mug of tea materialized in Morwen's hands as Hareth passed by. She pretended not to notice the despondent look on the cook's face. While Morwen sipped her drink, Gundor slipped inside and started to help carry in hot water and rags for the wounded to bathe with. Hareth and Gildis brought out scraps from Halmir's meal. Slowly she began to revive and to notice.

Gildis stopped to press her into taking a piece of bread spread with honey.

"That's the last of that, so you had better eat it up," Gildis told her.

"Thank you." Then she asked, "Where's Ioneth?"

The housekeeper's expression twisted. "When the men moved into the house we sent her back to her parents and told her not to come back."

"Did any of them harm you?"

Gildis glowered. "Harm two mean old women like us? Not on your life." She snorted and her disdain did more to revive Morwen than the food and drink. "They've taken to persecuting Gundor, though. Thank goodness for Guthere. He's helping give that boy a backbone."

Was he? Nobody ever paid Gundor any mind, except for her. And what good had she done? Morwen reproached herself. She already felt Wynflaed's contempt. How could she sit by while her household vigilantly held against the breach caused by Halmir?

"What are you doing?" Gildis asked as Morwen shrugged off the blanket and stood up.

"Helping. Bring me some water."

…

Cenhelm caught up to Thengel in the passage. He didn't have to look to know that is guard didn't approve of anything that had just occurred.

"Yes, Cenhelm?" he asked when he heard a sigh.

"Do you think it was wise to bait Lord Halmir?"

"Bait him? I only reminded him that the crown prince of Rohan has diplomatic immunity and that any attempt to injure me would rain down fire on his head. He seemed to accept the suggestion."

"For now," Cenhelm groused, "but men forget to fear fire after a time."

Thengel shrugged. "So? We'll keep it fresh in his memory, then."

Cenhelm jaw worked as if he was chewing on the words he wanted to say, but needed to swallow instead. Then he muttered, "I wish we'd never come here."

"Well, I'm glad to see you again," Guthere said, shuffling up behind them. "Is that really Princess Wynflaed? I couldn't believe my eyes when you all turned up in the hall."

"In the hall!" Thengel rounded on him. "And just why weren't you in the barn?"

The accusation hung in the air. Guthere gaped at Thengel, stunned by his sudden vehemence.

"W-what?"

Thengel's eyes narrowed with contempt as his temper flared. He gripped Guthere by the front of his collar. "How did you escape being thrown in with the rest of them? Or were you enjoying Halmir's benevolence too?" At Morwen's expense, no less. The idea galled him.

Guthere complexion turned deadly pale. "Not I!"

Thengel pushed him away as if touching a diseased thing. "So, you're a coward then. Too afraid to step in. Is that it?"

"But, Prince Thengel," Guthere argued, his temper beginning to rise. "My head's not set all the way yet. One knock from them and I'd be as good as useless."

"Better useless than a coward."

Guthere fell silent, stunned by the epithet.

"Now, Prince Thengel, think about what you're saying," Cenhelm warned. Unfortunately, his interjection only gave Guthere the time he needed to register a response.

"I'm not a coward or a fool," he croaked. "No one's left to look after Lady Morwen's folk and Beldir's no good with his busted leg. If I kept my head down, it's for them - Hareth and Gildis and Gundor. I'll be dead before Halmir lays a finger on any of them."

Cenhelm shouldered his way between the two men, his hand gripping both men by the shoulder. "Lord Halmir would split his sides laughing if he could see us now. He probably hears us, if he's still in the house." Cenhelm spat on the floor between them, then released Guthere to focus on his charge. "You know Guthere Guthnodson better than to doubt his courage, my Prince. In fact, I wish you'd take a straw from his bale instead of letting your temper cloud your judgment. You were cool enough back in the hall. What could he do? Is it Guthere who's angered you or Halmir? Picking on your own men won't help you protect Lady Morwen from that lordling you've incensed just now. "

Thengel shrugged off Cenhelm's hand. The three of them stood in a tableau, breathing heavily as their tempers cooled. As usual, the old warrior could see straight when Thengel couldn't. If he was hot tempered, Halmir caused it. Relenting, Thengel held out his hand to Guthere.

Guthere blinked at it without understanding. "My lord?"

"My accusation was unjust, Guthere," he said with a tone very much altered. "I know you are neither a coward nor a fool. Pardon me."

Guthere looked surprised that a prince of Fengel's line would apologize to him. But he shook Thengel's hand and seemed pleased to be on good terms again.

"Come in here. I want a word with both of you." Thengel threw open the study door, but Cenhelm didn't allow him to enter. The guard scanned the room before going in, then stepped out of the way for Thengel.

"Thank you, Cenhelm," Thengel said dryly.

Halmir had taken up camp here in his absence. Piles of books lay about the place. Empty cups and dishes with stale bread and greasy cheese had attracted flies that came in through an open window. A young man lay face down on the sofa. He looked up at them, groggy with wine.

"This is Lord Halmir's room—" he began to complain before Cenhelm heaved him upright by the arms and dragged him out into the passage.

Meanwhile, Thengel approached the desk and found the blueprints that Morwen had spoken of buried beneath the detritus. Careful not to spill anything on Lord Randir's things, he shimmied out the papers and glanced them over.

"What's been going on?" he asked Guthere.

"You saw for yourself. Halmir had axes brought up and gave his orders for the trees, but not before Beleg and the others raised a stink. I thought he'd use those axes on them, but he had 'em rounded up like hogs and put away."

"Halmir left you alone, though?" Cenhelm asked. "That does surprise me. I thought as the Prince's man you'd be first."

Guthere touched the bandage around his head. "They aren't afraid of me. But his men are all over the house now and I had to give up the room Lady Morwen gave me. I've been, eh, bunking upstairs with Morwen's people."

"Whose bunk?" Cenhelm asked with not a little acid in his tone.

"Eh," Guthere tugged the braided end of his mustache. Thengel felt stunned to see his warrior's face turn redder than it had since the first time Morwen had bent over his sick bed with that smile of hers, petting his hand so he'd take his medicine. "Well, look, I didn't want to give quarter to those runts, but someone has to protect the women. It's a matter of strategy."

Cenhelm gave Guthere a cutting glare, but the rider just shrugged his broad shoulders. He grinned under his beard.

"Well, now strategize a way to keep Halmir's thugs out of Morwen's house, will you? I want both of you to comb the place while Thurstan and Gladhon help in the hall. Anyone you find can sleep outside or in that befouled barn if they insist on staying in Imloth Melui."

"If they refuse to go?" Guthere asked.

"Persuade them however you think fit. I doubt they'll put up too much of a fight now the great man's out of sight."

Cenhelm crossed his arms. "What will you be doing?"

"Hand me my pack, there."

Cenhelm did so and Thengel fished around inside for something at the bottom. He laid the object on the desk.

"The Horn of Eorl," Cenhelm gasped as he touched his forehead. "Just what do you plan to do?"

Thengel gave Cenhelm an impatient look. "Do you not have orders?"

"Yes, my lord," Cenhelm answered with reluctant bow.

Guthere still stared at the horn and Thengel found it difficult to restrain his temper. "I trust your injury didn't damage your ears."

Cenhelm gripped Guthere's arm. "Come. Don't try to make sense of it. I've given up."

Thengel pretended not to hear. When finally alone, he sat down at Lord Randir's desk, took up a pen and some ink and paper once he could find any in the mess. Then he began to write. Sometimes when a sentence eluded him, he'd stop and stare absentmindedly at the horn until the right words came.

…

Cenhelm and Guthere returned to the hall to tell them that the rooms were clear. As many beds as could be found were given to the ill men, who were then told to remove their clothes for washing. Hareth and Gildis collected their things in large baskets and had them locked away in a shed till morning when they could be properly washed. At least it got the stench out of the house. Until then, Beleg and the others would have to robe themselves with sheets if they wanted to go out, as their belongings had long since been pilfered by Halmir's crew. Only Beldir had a spare set that hadn't been stolen.

While Hareth and Gildis were busy collecting clothes, Wynflaed had taken it upon herself to scrub and bind their raw wrists and ankles. And she did not make for a gentle nurse. The men's faces twisted with pent up groans, the next man in line fairly sweating with dread before she turned on him with a fresh rag. They'd run out of warm water, but not out of bodies in need of it, so Morwen took the buckets to the well.

The yard looked abandoned when she poked her head out from the kitchen door. A pale rectangle of light from a window lit up a patch of gravel, but all around it lay in darkness. She made sure the door didn't close all the way behind her as she picked her away toward the well near the vegetable patch. In the woods, a night bird cried out.

Morwen had just hooked the first bucket to the pulley when her skin began to crawl. She wasn't alone anymore.

"Who's there?" she asked.

Someone grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. The bucket splashed down into the well and she almost tripped over the second one lying next to the stone wall encircling the hole. Halmir glared down at her. She hadn't expected him to linger so near the house.

"Let go," she snapped. "What do you want?"

His grip on her arm only increased. "A little more respect from you, for one."

She spat in his face, remembering her trees. He raised his arm and she recoiled, but he only wiped the saliva from his face.

"So, that's how it's to be, is it? The last time we spoke, did I not ask if you wanted to be in my favor or out of it?" Then he pushed her. Her ankle rolled and she fell hard against the stone, bracing herself from sliding to the ground with her hands. The fall had snatched the air from her lungs and she struggled to speak.

"What is the matter with you?"

"Believe me, Morwen, this is only the beginning."

"How dare you threaten me," she hissed, attempting to rise. "After what you've done here, could you possibly fall any further?"

"If it must be so." He leaned over her, forcing her to press against the wall again. "I took the orchard. What makes you think I can't do the same to you?"

"You forget yourself, Halmir. I'm not alone."

"At the moment, you are very much alone." He gripped her chin roughly with his clammy hand. "It's a pity to wreck a beauty like you, but then, it seems you've already wasted yourself with that northern pig."

Understanding broke over her like a gust of air. Something in her rose up as if from a deep well in order to resist him. Stop this, she thought. Her hand crept down the stone wall until she felt the rough wood of the bucket. She gripped the handle and blindly swung it in an arc over her head.

Halmir grabbed her wrist mid-swing and squeezed it till it. For a long moment they wrestled for control over the direction of the bucket and his grip increased until it felt like the bones would snap. She cried out. The bucket dropped from her bloodless fingers, bumping to the ground.

In a trice, he spun her around to crush her back against his chest, covering her mouth with one hand, the other arm holding her like a vice as he lifted her by the waist as if he meant to drag her off into the woods. His knees bruised the back of her legs as the tips of her toes scrambled for purchase.

Then suddenly she fell beside the bucket. Morwen rolled to sit on her backside, facing Halmir's next attack, ready to kick him if she had to. But silver streaked across Halmir's throat and he stood over her as if paralyzed by the short blade that had materialized out of nowhere. A pale hand gripped the bone handle. Morwen fixated on one of the fingers. A blood blister.

"What's this?" Wynflaed asked. The top of her head was barely visible past Halmir's shoulder, but her reach was long and she forced him to bend backward till she cradled his head on her shoulder like she might a lover's. Her eyes looked black in the night, dim and unfocused as a shark's. "Not a bully, eh?"

Halmir's breath came out with a strangled wheeze.

"Speaking of pigs, ever seen one bleed?" She flattened the blade against his windpipe. "You have a pig-based economy here, so I expect you've seen a barnyard in butchering season. Just pools and pools of blood. Pretty, in a jewel tone sort of way. Not that I fancy jewels myself. Do you fancy jewels?"

Halmir gurgled again until she turned the blade edge on him once more.

"Now, do I need to stick you like a pig or are you going to give Lady Morwen some peace? Consider carefully."

Halmir gurgled.

"Sorry, I couldn't hear that." A thin, dark line appeared on his throat. "Do you mean to say you won't leave her alone?"

A sob escape his lips as a drop of blood carved a thin path down his neck, disappearing inside his collar.

"Oh, I see. Well, let that be a lesson to you."

The blade disappeared. Halmir shot away from her like a stone released from a sling. Morwen watched in fascinated horror as he disappeared into the night. Wynflaed held out her hand to help Morwen up.

"How did you…" she asked between gasps.

"You took too long. I figured you'd fallen in the well." Wynflaed frowned. "That would've been better for you than what he had planned. Watch yourself with that one." She sheathed the knife. "Men have short memories and if he has to have you, he'll conjure more bad ideas to make it happen."

Morwen rubbed her wrist where he'd bruised it. "Thank you."

"Forget it," she said gruffly. "I only did it because his talk bores me to distraction."

Morwen didn't believe her, but her nonchalance somehow helped Morwen to calm. Slowly, she bent to pick up the second bucket, then she reeled in the first, handing it to Wynflaed to carry into the house. But Wynflaed remained by her side until Morwen completed her task.

"You won't tell anyone what happened, will you?" Morwen asked as they carried the buckets toward the house.

Wynflaed look at her out of the corner of her eyes. "Why, what happened?"

Morwen squeezed her eyes shut. "Nothing. Well, almost nothing. I'd just prefer if no one found out what Halmir tried to do."

"Suit yourself."

…

Inside the kitchen, Gildis accosted them.

"Well, my lady, you're a sight for sore eyes, though I can't exactly say looking at you in that state makes them feel any less sore."

Morwen glanced down at herself. The scuffle with Halmir had turned a small tear from the orchard into a rent that split the skirt from knee to hem.

"We've given every bed and ever rug to those poor men." Gildis told them as she took a bucket from Morwen, eyeing her companion, noting everything from the leggings, the tunic that only went down to the lady's knees, and the lovely bone handle sticking out from the sheath on her belt. "There's nowhere for eh…for…"

"Gildis, this is Princess Wynflaed, Thengel's sister."

"Prince Thengel's sister?" Gildis parroted.

"That's what I said."

"Not exactly," Gildis sniffed. "Well, forgive me, Princess, but I've nowhere to put you up for the night."

Wynflaed set the bucket down on the table. "I'll sleep on rugs in the hall, just as well."

Gildis lifted her chin. "They're occupied," she cleared her throat, "by men."

"That suits me fine." Wynflaed gave Gildis her slanted grin. "Just like base camp."

Gildis clucked her tongue.

"It's all right, Gildis. Wynflaed will share my room." Then she asked, "Where's Thengel and the others?"

"Prince Thengel let himself back into Lord Randir's rooms. Most of them will pile in there too. They're talking amongst themselves in the hall just now."

"What's left to do?"

"Nothing Hareth and I can't manage on our own. The men all have their beds and won't stir any more until their clothes are clean and dry. I threatened to show them what I can do with a poker if I saw them streaking through the house with nothing but their skins." She sighed. "So, you couldn't get Prince Adrahil to come, then?"

Morwen rubbed her wrist. "No, Gildis. He had to return to Dol Amroth."

"Well. We were all counting on him." Gildis shook her head. "Go to bed, my lady. You're shivering. It's been a terrible day. We're all sorry you had to come back to this. I guess it's only going to get worse."

Morwen reached for the older woman. "Don't give up, Gildis. The tide may turn yet, that's what Adrahil would say." She thought of the way Wynflaed had sent Halmir sprinting and her own spirits began to rise. "We have our friends with us now."

She didn't notice the look of surprise on Wynflaed's face.

…

The letter took longer than Thengel thought it would. When he finished, he blotted the paper and folded it. Then he rolled up the plans along with the note. The documents disappeared into a leather wallet he found in the drawer, where they would wait for the opportune moment.

He heard the door open. Wynflaed poked her head inside, saw him there, and let herself in. She closed the door and leaned on it.

"Cenhelm says you assaulted Guthere."

He glanced up. "I lost my temper."

"You? I don't believe it."

"Shut up, please. I'm not in the mood for sarcasm."

She crossed to an armchair and made herself comfortable.

"Well? What do you want?" he finally asked.

"I want to know what your plan is for that girl. You'd better have one."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I have."

She waved her hand. "Which is?"

"Unfolding," Thengel answered coolly, "or it will be."

Wynflaed approached the desk and lifted the horn from the pile it rested on.

"So, you did bring Eorl's horn. Is that part of it?"

Thengel looked up at the horn in her hand. "Why? What's it to you?"

Wynflaed shrugged and put it back. "I never could stomach watching a fox closing in on a baby rabbit."

"Don't tell me you care."

Wynflaed glared at him. "Listen, I never said I stopped the fox, did I?"

He considered her for a moment. "You haven't become friends with Morwen, by an chance?"

"Friends?" Wynflaed scoffed. "I've got a list as long as the South Road of reasons to convince Oswin to forget about Morwen. But the child needs help and here we are. I don't have to like her — and I don't — but women should look out for one another. So, as long as I'm here, I'll stick to her better than you can."

"Thank you," he said, strangely affected. "Don't underestimate her, Wyn. There's steel in her yet."

Wynflaed snorted as she turned her back on him and made her way to the door. "She's running out of time to show it."

"Where are you going?"

"To sleep. In a real bed, mind," she muttered. "Look how soft I'm growing."

"Not too soft," he warned, "Halmir's still out there."

Wynflaed didn't answer. She growled.


	32. Shieldmaiden

Wynflaed still snored quietly on her side of the bed when Morwen rose to start the day. It had taken her hours to fall asleep, between her anxiety and the disturbance beside her. And yet, Morwen could only feel grateful that she hadn’t had to spend the night alone since the line between safety and harm at Bar-en-Ferin had grown so thin. It took her breath away when she considered what might have been if not for Thengel’s sister. 

The stone felt cool under her feet as she crossed to the window to look into the gray morning. The bedroom window faced west toward the ridge and no tents disturbed the view. Her limbs felt stiff and sore from yesterday’s ride and the running. And the falling. The skin on her knees felt stiff where the scrapes were scabbing over. Gildis had laid out a dress and apron for her some time between Morwen’s sleeping and waking. She pulled the fabric over her head and laced up the front. 

Should she wake Wynflaed? Morwen recalled her companion’s gleeful violence the evening before and decided against it. A knife to the throat might be her only reward. So Morwen willed down the sick rising in her throat and went in search of breakfast on her own.

A few of Beleg’s men were still asleep on rugs in the hall. She found no sign that Gildis or Thengel or the others had also risen. Only Hareth occupied the kitchen when Morwen crept through the door. The cook jumped and almost lost her spoon. 

“Oh, it’s you. Good morning, my lady.” 

“Where is everyone?” Morwen asked as she hovered near the door. 

“Gildis is busy bullying Gundor into carrying out the large cauldron for the laundry. You missed Prince Thengel and his men. They’ve gone out.” 

Morwen shivered with dread. “Gone where?” 

Hareth gave her a wry look. “I had a nice long talk with them last night while we were nursing those poor wights, dropping a few hints about the empty larder.” Then Hareth grinned to herself as she stirred something in the pot. “They’ve gone hunting. Prince Thengel says to tell you he hopes to be back this afternoon. I’d tell you what else he said, but I don’t think it’ll have the effect he wants.”

“What did he say?” Morwen crossed her arms. “Hareth.” 

Hareth sniffed. “Well…he said to stay in the house until he comes back.”

For a terrible, sinking moment, Morwen thought Wynflaed must have broken her promise and told her brother about Halmir. But no, she believed she would have heard the result if Wynflaed had. Maybe it was foolish to keep it a secret; Halmir didn’t deserve to have his behavior concealed. But the situation at Bar-en-Ferin had become far more tenuous than she had imagined it would. As Thengel reminded her the evening before, they were still outnumbered. She imagined the chaos that would ensue and had decided that the best course, as far as she could judge, would be to focus on running Halmir off the plantation as quickly as possible. 

Misjudging her mistress’s expression, Hareth added, “It’s sensible advice, Lady Morwen. Nothing’s holding those men back from mischief anymore, let me tell you.” 

Too late! Morwen pendulumed between illness and anger. Her mind wouldn’t allow her to accept what almost happened the evening before, but for Wynflaed’s intervention, though her body’s visceral reactions spoke of a deeper realization. She knew better than Thengel how she could expect to be treated. Though Halmir hadn’t accomplished his ultimate aim to break her, he had at least reduced her through fear. She glared at the forest visible through the windows that had begun to feel like mere space between bars in a cage. 

“If I stay inside, what’s to stop them from continuing their work?” 

Hareth looked her over critically. “You’re not much of a match for anyone up there. Must you go back up to the orchard?” she asked. “I hate to think of you looking at what they did. I think you’d better wait for Prince Thengel. Guthere says —” 

“I can’t stay in here all day,” Morwen replied. “Prince Thengel isn’t much use to me as a body guard if he’s gone.” 

Hareth raised her hands in surrender. “What did I tell you? I knew his message would get your back up.” The cook turned to spoon something out of a pot into a bowl, glancing at Morwen sideways. “I imagine he’s concerned, is all.” 

“It isn’t Thengel. It’s Halmir,” she said grimly. “He wants me to feel small, but I don’t intend to give him satisfaction.” 

“Well, be sensible about it, please, my lady. I wish Gildis were here to tell you that herself. You usually listen to what she says.” Hareth put the bowl of broth on the table. “There. Eat that.” 

Morwen dragged the bench out with her foot and sat down. She reached across the table for a cloth napkin and surprised herself by the sight of her wrist as it emerged from her sleeve. A purple, mottled band had formed around it during the night, a macabre souvenir from Halmir. Morwen snatched her arm back before Hareth noticed the bruise. Her hunger vanished, replaced by a hollow feeling in her stomach. 

If last night at the well hadn’t occurred, Morwen never would have imagined a time when she couldn’t walk from one end of the property to the other on her own. But it had happened and Wynflaed had also warned her to take care. 

Mistaking Morwen’s hesitation, Hareth said, “I know it’s poor fare. I can add more salt, if you’d like.” 

Morwen looked down at the soup, ready to deny anything for the sake of Hareth’s pride. But the soup’s color left something to be desired and she could count the chopped cabbage leaves floating on the surface with one hand. One sad white bean sat on the bottom of the bowl, split and puffy from many reheatings. 

“Is the larder really empty?” she asked wistfully. 

Hareth grunted as she poured out tea. “You saw the glut last night and that was leftovers! Whatever those men didn’t eat, I gave to the wounded. That was mostly rinds.” 

“Halmir didn’t order dinners like that every night?”

Hareth slapped a mug down on the table beside Morwen, spilling half of its contents and causing her to jump. “Oh yes, he did! There’s hardly a crumb left in the place for anyone else,” Hareth complained. “I’ve watered down the broth five times just so there’s something to serve the rest of us. I never made chicken bones last so long.” 

Morwen pressed her napkin into the spilled tea, reproaching herself for feeling angry with Thengel while completely overlooking the real offender here. “I’m sorry, Hareth. I don’t know what I expected Halmir to do, but it wasn’t this.” 

“It’s not your fault, Lady Morwen. Once that man ordered the trees down, he only went from bad to worse.” Hareth shook her head wearily. “He changed; I could see it in his eyes. Those boys were always little sneaks, but he has an infection in him now, if you ask me.” 

An infection? Again, scraps of memory from last night darted through her mind, unbidden, and she rubbed her eyes. Yes, he had gone from bad to worse. Where he’d threatened before, he meant to follow through now. She wasn’t afraid of his men. Now that she had returned, she believed their natural reluctance would resurface, at least enough to leave her alone. But Halmir? She didn’t know if he had a conscience anymore. 

“Lady Morwen, are you all right? You look pale as a ghost. Where are you going?” 

Morwen slid off the bench and made for the interior door. “I’m not hungry, anymore, Hareth. I am going to go to the orchard.” 

“By yourself? 

“No, not by myself.” 

Morwen could be stubborn, but she wasn’t a fool. So she went in search of Wynflaed. If the shieldmaiden wanted to invite herself to Bar-en-Ferin, she could make herself useful again. 

…

Morwen cut through the lawn where the men were all still asleep. Wynflaed trailed behind her in a wary stupor, squinting dolefully at the high eastern wall of the valley where the sun had barely crested the ridge. 

When Morwen reached the deserted road near the orchard walls, the oldest of the plantation dogs, an old girl covered in burs, tangentially houndish in breeding, loped toward Morwen from the direction of the forest. She knelt down to rub the dog’s face and scratch her ears. “Where’ve you been, hm?” The hound licked her hand in answer. 

Wynflaed caught up to Morwen and squinted at the matted beast. “Even the dogs don’t want to be around Halmir. He doesn’t smell right.”

Morwen sincerely agreed. “Come on,” she said, and then she whistled for the hound to follow. 

As they climbed the hill, Morwen noticed how the hound dropped further and further behind as they neared the desolation at the top. A damp, stale reek of burning wood and wet ash lingered in the air. An unwelcoming odor. She listened carefully and kept her eyes open, but no one else had entered the orchard yet that morning. 

She caught herself counting trees with a feverish concentration, as if she could somehow protect the rest from being felled if she simply held them in her mind. The few hours between Morwen’s first frenetic view of the destruction had ebbed into a deep, dull ache when she once more stood in the heart of the apple trees where the swath had been cut. The evening before hadn’t been the result of Morwen’s imagination. They were all gone, the Hyarnustar Gold. The first and best of her parents’ orchard. She stood in the middle of their stumps near the scarred earth where their trunks and limbs had been dragged, split, and burned. Some of the stumps still had axes biting into them after Thengel ordered the men to clear off. The fools hadn’t even waited for the wood to season either. The smoke from the green wood must have been great. It made her think of the burning in Armenelos, from the old stories her father used to read her of Númenor. 

And great was the burning thereof. 

Wynflaed pulled out one of the axes and studied it. 

“Halmir’s folk did a tidy job here.” 

Morwen grimaced as if tasting wormwood. “They destroyed healthy trees for no purpose.” 

“Mm hm.” 

Morwen gave Wynflaed a sharp look, but her companion returned it with a bland frown. 

Then Wynflaed said, “Oh, I see. You’re sensitive about them.” She shrugged. “Sorry. I’m a plainswoman myself. Grass, whatever. I like a clear view.” 

Morwen didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t. Instead, she returned to the tree line. She found the red honeysaps untouched. A row of sour pippins was lost and two of the white ladies, but Morwen didn’t think they were the true targets. Whether or not Halmir’s maps had specified this location for the guesthouses originally, she didn’t remember, but he had since chosen the spot to begin his project with calculated intelligence, certainly revenge for her defiance. 

“What kind were they?” Wynflaed asked. “The downed trees?” 

Morwen turned toward her companion in time to see Wynflaed trod over a small, forgotten branch with a few green leaves still clinging to it. Instead of breaking, it sunk into the damp earth. Morwen winced as if her own arm lay under Wynflaed’s boot. Something burned in the back of her throat. 

“These rows here, they were called Hyarnustar gold, from seedlings brought over from Númenor and grafted with the wild apple trees here. They wouldn’t thrive on their own after being transplanted,” she added when it looked like Wynflaed’s eyes had glazed over. “At least, that’s the legend.” She swallowed back the bile rising in her throat. “This is the oldest part of the orchard.”

Wynflaed swatted a bee away. “At least they’ll grow back.” 

“Grow back?” Morwen felt a knot forming between her shoulder blades. 

“Won’t they? Don’t you have seeds or…something?” 

Morwen chewed on the inside of her cheek to work out her rising impatience. “Wynflaed, it takes years for a seedling to grow into a fruit-producing tree. Even after they begin to bear fruit, it takes times to fully establish an orchard that can support itself.” She passed a hand over her eyes. “In one week, Halmir has chopped down half a generation’s worth of harvests. If I replanted now, my children, if I had any, would be nearly grown by the time we could reap the full benefit. That’s supposing the trees survive blights and who knows what else.” 

“It could be worse. You still have those other trees.”

Morwen breathed deeply, willing herself to be calm. “You aren’t helping, Wynflaed. These trees are the heart of the orchard. They meant everything to me.” 

“Poor you,” Wynflaed said with unconvincing sympathy. 

Morwen stared at her companion. Did her ears deceive her, or did she detect a note of mockery in that simple sentence? 

“Listen, Halmir knows how to get under your skin,” Wynflaed reflected as she squinted upward at a hawk circling something in the forest nearby. She glanced back at Morwen. “But then, you probably make it easy for him.” 

“Easy!” 

Wynflaed shrugged as she wandered toward the trees where Morwen stood. “Maybe you deserve all this. It’s not like you’re putting up a fight.” 

“Excuse me?” Morwen felt her hands begin to shake and the blood pounded in her ears as she stared at Wynflaed as if she had turned into rabid dog. 

Wynflaed hefted the axe, looking it over with a professional air. “My brother told me all about it. He pities you, but I think it’s pathetic,” she said with cold indifference. “You let your cousin come here; you let him stay. Then you run away like a frightened rabbit to Minas Tirith and expect some men to make it better for you. Personally, I think you’re a coward.” 

“I am not a…” Morwen tried to form the word coward, but her mouth wouldn’t cooperate. “I’m outnumbered and the laws protect Halmir!” 

“What, are you crying?” Wynflaed laughed. 

Morwen wiped the side of her face with her sleeve. “No!” 

Wynflaed’s lips twisted with distaste as she observed Morwen. “Do you always let life happen to you or are you waiting for someone to give you permission to seize it by the throat?”

Morwen gaped at Wynflaed through a blurry haze as her temper flared. “How dare you,” she managed after a few false starts. 

Wynflaed’s expression shifted into a look of mild curiosity. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I making you mad? I have that effect on people.” 

“You don’t even know me,” Morwen retorted. 

“No, but I have a good guess as to what you’re like.” She hefted the axe. “See, if I took this axe and swung it, I bet you wouldn’t—”

Morwen stopped Wynflaed just in time to save another tree from the axe’s bite. She wrenched the tool away and had the presence of mind to hold onto it rather than fling it away like she wanted to. 

“Are you mad?” she shouted. “Get out of my orchard at once!”

Wynflaed just laughed again, unmoved. “Good. You’re angry. That’s an improvement.” 

Morwen flushed, speechless. The woman must be completely unhinged! Why on Arda had Thengel allowed Morwen to foolishly invite her here? 

“Listen, little girl, you were pitying yourself before. To what purpose?” Wynflaed grinned and Morwen felt the urge to step back or else to sink the axe into Thengel’s sister - no wonder he avoided her! “Pity is useless, but a good healthy anger gives us the drive to change things. Like in your situation, most of those men aren’t even soldiers; they’re just a bunch of farm hands and skilled workers dressed up in costumes, squatting on your property, which you’d notice if you’d stop chin-wobbling and pay attention. A little resistance should send them packing.”

Morwen felt dizzy from the whirlwind Wynflaed had kicked up, one moment berating and insulting her, then changing directions all together to give her advice. 

One fact did register in Morwen’s befuddled brain. “What do you mean they aren’t soldiers?” 

Wynflaed leaned against the tree she’d almost harmed and shimmied against it to scratch a hard to reach place on her back. “That’s what Thengel said, though I don’t need to be told to know it. His friends said your cousin dug up those sad sacks from around Arnach to bulk his numbers. They don’t have any training and they aren’t eager for a fight, I can tell you that. If you would put up a fight already, they’d yield every time.” 

“Adan told him that?” 

“That’s right.” 

Morwen hugged the axe handle while her mind raced. They weren’t soldiers. They were farmers and smiths and brewers and laborers from Arnach. They shouldn’t even be here. They had left livelihoods and families behind to spend several weeks squatting in Imloth Melui. Who was left in the garth now? 

“Why didn’t Thengel tell me that?” Morwen asked. 

Wynflaed rolled her eyes. “He has this fool notion that he’s going to save the day all by himself. He’s always behaved that way, ever since he was a child. It’s what got him in trouble in the first place.” 

“But that won’t work,” Morwen mumbled, trying to concentrate on the thoughts crowding to the forefront of her mind, vying for attention. She needed to think! 

“No, it never does. But he’s thick—”

Morwen held up her hand to silence Wynflaed as one thought crystalized. For every man on her plantation, she realized, probably an angry woman sat at home, left with all the children, and chores, and farms or businesses. Her expression cleared like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Her anger had given her clarity. 

The axe fell from Morwen’s nerveless fingers. Wynflaed had to dance out of the way before the axe head fell on her foot. 

“I have it,” Morwen breathed. 

Wynflaed looked up at Morwen after the near miss. “Huh?” 

“I know what to do!” She grinned and this time Wynflaed looked unnerved. 

“What’s that?” Wynflaed frowned as Morwen grabbed her arm.

Morwen laughed. “Don’t you see it too?” 

“I see a crazy person. Get off.” 

“It’s so simple!” Morwen let go of Wynflaed and spun on her heels, facing the orchard gate. “I’m going to raise my own army!”

“You are?” Wynflaed called. “I hate to remind you, but there’s no more room here!” 

But Morwen had already run off beyond hearing. Wynflaed watched her race down through the orchard until she lost sight of the girl in the trees. 

“Oh well. You’re welcome,” she muttered. 

Wynflaed picked up the axe that Morwen had left behind. Then she began her own descent before the desolation got to her. They were nice trees, once she took a look at them. 

 

…  
Morwen had to slow down through the field of tents. In the center, she saw a huddle of men watching a row. In the center, she recognized Halmir who looked to be venting his spleen against the men who hadn’t made him comfortable enough the night before and had neglected to bring him breakfast. She decided to change directions but one of the onlookers saw her and nudged to his companions. Halmir sloughed around and the twist of anger on his face smoothed into a leer that ran right through her. 

“Ah, you’ve come back from admiring my handiwork, have you?” He glared at the men around him until a few took the hint and laughed. “Where’s your lap dog, the Prince? I saw him ride away this morning. Has he grown tired of you?” 

Morwen felt her hackles rising again. In a dark fold in her mind, she recognized that fear might be more appropriate, but in the light of day she found that all she could feel was contempt. How dare he try to make her feel small! 

Shivering with disgust, Morwen crossed through the ring of idlers. They parted and Halmir found himself standing toe to toe with her. She gripped his tunic and pulled his face close to hers. 

“Your behavior is about to catch up with you, cousin Halmir. So shut up and get out of my way.” 

When she let him go, he took a hasty step backward and she raced on. 

…

Halmir was still taken aback by the encounter when another figure approached the camp. The straw-haired baggage he encountered last night had followed behind Morwen at a more leisurely pace with the hound trotting beside her. He watched this strange person with wary interest when she came to stand beside him. She hefted one of the axes belonging to his men and tipped the blade toward him.

“Remember me? I think we met last night.” 

Was it laughter he heard in her voice, or just the quality of her thick accent? 

“Just what creature of darkness are you?” he said, careless of the weapon between them. 

“The right hand of Doom,” Wynflaed recited blandly. “The crow flying over the theater of reckoning. The stick stirring the pot of wrath.” She broke into her characteristic slanted grin. “You’ve put your foot in it, little man.” 

Halmir grunted, the poetry lost on him. 

The grin disappeared. “A word of warning, lordling. There is a will in the world stronger and sharper than all your axes - especially when your pack of idiots leave them out in the rain.” 

He tried to smirk but it died on his lips. “Oh yes? What?” 

“The will of an angry woman.” She shrugged. “Nice scab, by the way. Wherever did you get it?” 

Halmir instinctively covered his throat and she laughed, cold, clear notes that reminded all the men of icicles and snowdrifts. 

“Get her out of here,” Halmir barked as the knot of men continued to form around them, eager to see what the shieldmaiden would do next. 

Wynflaed bared her teeth and the Arnach men fell back. “Don’t trouble yourselves, friends. My job here is done.” 

She strolled on, singing in her own tongue and swinging the axe as she went. 

…


	33. Rivals

Hareth wasn't in the kitchen and so Morwen limped around to the vegetable patch. Her run through the orchard had aggravated the tenderness in her ankle after she'd rolled it the day before. She pressed her fist into her side where the muscles began to stitch up after the run. All the rich meals in Minas Tirith had also caught up to her, it seemed.

She could hear their conversation as she approached. Hareth had a basket half full of lettuces. She held another leaf in her hand, inspecting the amount of holes eaten through them with a waspish expression on her face. Guthere and Gundor were bent over another row and just as Morwen reached the garden, Gundor showed his companion a slug he'd found.

"Like this one," he said to Guthere.

Guthere scratched his head through a new dressing. "That? It looks harmless."

"Harmless!" Hareth cried over her shoulder, waving the nibbled leaf at them. "They get all over the place and eat like mad. When that happens, what am I supposed to do?"

Guthere nodded gravely. "I see. They are pests."

"Sure they are." Gundor flicked the slug into a bucket of soapy water. Then he chuckled. "They make Ioneth scream, especially when the weather's wet and she can't keep up with them. I wish she hadn't left them all for us to pick off."

"Then we will vanquish them in her name and in your mother's," Guthere said stoutly.

Morwen witnessed Hareth turn around and flutter her eyes in the warrior's direction. Guthere's beard twitched as their eyes met. Then he pinched another slug from a lettuce leaf and held it in his hand, watching it for a moment before he closed his fingers and squashed it in his palm.

Gundor gagged.

"I win. Now what?" Guthere asked.

Gundor wrinkled his nose. "You were supposed to put it in the bucket. Remember?"

Guthere shrugged, wiping his hand on his trousers. "It's dead, boy. That's what we want, no?"

"Well, but…oh, hello, Lady Morwen."

Morwen crossed the patch and knelt down so she could grab Gundor's shoulders. His eyes grew wide in surprise by her sudden nearness and the strange light in her eyes. "I need you to ride to Midhel's hut and instruct her husband to deliver a message to Garth Arnach for me," she said between breaths.

"Me?" Gundor choked.

Guthere cleared his throat. Gundor flinched, but stood up and bowed.

"I mean, em, yes, Lady Morwen. I'll go. You can count on me," he said, eyes screwed upward as if reciting a litany he'd recently learned. "Em." He scratched behind his ear. "Only…those men won't let me leave the yard. They'll tackle me for sure."

"He's right, my lady," Guthere agreed, helping Morwen rise with the hand that didn't have slug slime on it. "But what about Prince Thengel? They won't stop him."

Morwen turned on Guthere with such intensity that she startled him. "Have you seen Prince Thengel?"

"They just came home a little while ago asking for the keys to the smokehouse," Hareth told her. "Why, what's so urgent? Are those men in the trees again?"

But Morwen had disappeared in the direction of the outbuildings.

She heard voices from the stone hut used for curing meat. Rohirric words and laughter portended that the morning's hunt had been a success. Thengel stood in the doorway with a water skin tucked into his elbow so he could tip the contents over his hands to wash them. She darted toward him, seizing him by the sleeves when he turned to see who approached.

"Morwen?" Thengel tried to hold her back at arm's length by her shoulders. "Don't come close; I'm filthy," he commanded, though with laughter threading his voice, as if he liked her enthusiasm but didn't wish to smear her with sweat and grime from cleaning game.

The skin fell with a soggy flop onto the floor. They both stooped at the same time to pick it up, narrowly missing a knock on the head. Morwen reached it first and helped him pour the rest out.

While he shook his hands dry, darted out of the way of the drops.

"What is it?" he asked. "You're out of breath." His eyes searched hers. "You look like you've been crying."

"I've been talking to Wynflaed," was all she would say.

He squeezed her shoulders. "Oh, well that explains it then."

She peeked over his shoulder into the hut where his men were hanging the morning's bounty.

"You had a good hunt."

Thengel grinned. "What's more, everyone's skulls are intact."

She nodded, vacantly. "Can we talk?"

"We can take care of the rest, my lord," Cenhelm said, returning to Westron.

Thengel nodded his thanks and together they left the hut and the smell of burning wood and guts. She felt almost giddy and wished he would walk faster.

"What's it about?" he asked.

"I've had an idea that I think will help clear the orchard."

He smiled at her. "Good. Tell me while I clean up. Where's the well?"

She wrinkled her nose. "You want to wash outside?"

"Just enough to get into the house without bringing the charnel smell with me."

Morwen led him to the well and helped him fill a bucket with water. When she turned back around he had bunched the hem of his tunic in his hands and pulled most of it over his head, revealing his well-muscled chest. She startled and spilled some of the water down the front of her apron.

"Oh!" she gasped.

The dirty tunic hit the dirt where he dropped it. "Is something the matter?"

She looked down at her sodden skirt. "The water's cold," she lied.

Thengel shrugged. "Thank you," he said as he accepted the bucket from her. Next he surprised her by dumping the bucket over his head, leaning over enough to spare the rest of his clothing.

Morwen darted out of the way before she shared in the drenching. She began filling a second bucket while she watched his back through a screen of her hair. The skin there was of a much lighter hue than his arms and neck, which had seen more of the sun. Old, cord-like scars stood out like dull brands on his arms and sides. They moved tightly with his muscles as he shook the water from his hair and slicked the water off his arms.

Morwen offered him the second bucket as he continued rinsing himself off, seemingly unbothered by the cold ablutions. The odd curling feeling in her stomach seemed to tell her that in a valley full of Beldirs and Gundors, she had, up until now, missed out on something in life.

Satisfied that he wouldn't offend anyone's senses, he stooped to pick up his soiled tunic. "So what's this all about?"

"What?"

Thengel gave her an odd look as he wiped wet hair out of his eyes. "Whatever it is you wanted to tell me."

"Oh." Morwen turned away with the buckets to mask her confusion. She'd completely forgotten what she was supposed to be doing! "Wynflaed gave me an idea while we were up in the orchard this morning—"

"Where were you?" he asked sharply. When she didn't answer, he said, "Morwen, is that wise?"

Morwen turned and found him glaring at her. "Don't you tell me I shouldn't be in the orchard!" she argued, but then she added in a humbler tone, "Besides, I didn't go alone."

"Morwen." He pressed his lips together and exhaled through his nose in an attempt to collect himself. Then he said, "Last night one of Halmir's folk almost took a piece out of you with an axe. You could get hurt."

"I know." Her heart had lodged in her throat when, for a second, she thought he might have found out about what else almost happened last night in this very spot. But no. Halmir would have heard from Thengel by now if the story got abroad. Morwen didn't know what would happen then, only that it would complicate matters.

"Where is Wynflaed, anyway?" he asked as his eyes swept the yard.

Morwen blinked. "I…don't know. I ran off without thinking, I guess."

Thengel exhaled through his nose again, but glared at the sky instead of her. "Come into the house and tell me," he said with an effort to hide his frustration with her carelessness. "Too many of Halmir's folk are around out here anyway."

When they entered the hall, Teitherion was shadowing Gildis, setting out bowls for whatever Hareth would manage to find for the wounded men. Something across the room caught Thengel's attention and he almost lost his footing. "How did that get there?" He dropped the tunic over a chair and crossed to the fireplace.

"What is it?" Morwen asked him, not noticing anything unusual until he reached up and took a silver object in his hand. She met him by the fireplace to see what that it was just a curved hunting horn. Perhaps he had been looking for it before the hunt this morning and had misplaced it.

He looked at her with a vague expression. "Sorry. Tell me more about this idea of yours."

Wynflaed came into the hall from the passage. "Has she told you about her army yet?"

"What army?" he asked.

Morwen tucked her hair behind her ear. "Well, I don't exactly have one yet. I need to send a message to Ferneth and explain what I need, but Gundor can't get through to the courier with Halmir's men in the way."

"Gladhon can carry a message to Arnach first thing tomorrow," Thengel promised. "What else can I do?"

Morwen bit the inside of her cheek. The plan had begun to sound ludicrous the more she thought about it, but what else did she have?

"Maybe this won't work. If it does, I do know it'll take time. Help me manage Halmir until it can play out."

Thengel hesitated, then his eyes flicked back to the mantelpiece. "I have an idea about that."

"You do? What is it?"

Before Thengel could explain, Gundor pushed open the outer doors and ran inside, flanked by Cenhelm, Thurstan, and Gladhon.

"Lady Morwen," Gundor gasped, "Halmir's in the yard, demanding food. Should we stop him from coming inside?"

"No," Thengel answered for her. "Let him come in."

"But I don't—" Morwen began, but then Thengel leaned over her.

"Morwen, I'm going to kiss you. Is that all right?"

She blinked. "What?"

…

Morwen's eyes had closed of their own volition and she became aware of several sensations at once. A murmur in the background. Warm lips gently questing over hers contrasting with the few days' growth of Thengel's beard scratching her chin. The water dripping from his hair, trickling from his nose to where it pressed alongside hers. The smell of his skin and the smoke from the fireplace. She felt his arms around her waist and shoulders, holding her fast to his bare chest, and it felt like being snugged against the sunny side of a wall. Except for the cold silver horn cradled between her shoulder blades where he still held it. And finally, her heart having plummeted into her stomach had bounced back up and lodged in her throat once more. Her thoughts scattered in all four directions of the wind.

Then she felt someone's grip on her arm, wrenching her abruptly away. The air felt harsh and cold against her body compared to the heat from Thengel. She stared stupidly into Halmir's flushed face, her limbs trembling all over.

"Just what is this?" her cousin demanded.

All around, the witnesses in the hall had fallen dumb. Wide-eyed, Morwen broke the silence as a pale awareness enveloped her mind.

"Adrahil!" she gasped before covering her mouth.

…

Halmir stared, temporarily speechless.

"No, it's Halmir," he groused, sneering down his nose at her. "This man has clearly addled the few wits left to you."

Thengel planted his palm on Halmir's chest, forcing the brute back as he stepped between them. "Show some respect," he warned. "Remember, you're on tenuous terms in Morwen's house."

From the corner of his eye, Thengel watched Morwen touch her lips with a strange, vacant expression on her bright face, hoping to gauge how she'd handle the news to come.

"So says the man making free use of my cousin's charms," Halmir retorted, stopping out of arm's reach. Then he turned to his thugs who were always near at hand. "Well, friends, the Prince reveals himself at last. Now we know what he came back for."

"Shut up." Thengel eyed the lordling as if he were a rat that hadn't escaped the cartwheels. Out of the corner of his eye, Thengel noticed Wynflaed skirting the perimeter of the hall, missing nothing. She stopped only when she had Halmir in a direct line of sight. Then finding a bit of open wall, she slumped against it and lowered her head as if the tableau in the middle of the hall had put her to sleep.

"Weren't there enough skirts in Minas Tirith to satisfy you, Prince Thengel?" Halmir snapped his fingers, and on cue, his followers snickered.

Thengel turned a black look on Halmir, but his voice remained calm and low. "Choose your words with better consideration, lordling. You're speaking of a woman with greater honor than you possess and perhaps soon of higher rank. Look carefully at this."

Halmir squinted at the horn's rich designs. "What is it?"

"It is a token of my house and a gift for Lady Morwen." She stared at the horn as Thengel placed it in her cupped hands. "Consider it a stake, Lord Halmir."

"A stake in what?" Halmir asked suspiciously.

Thengel touched Morwen's back and she jumped. He forced himself to smile, and thought, perhaps, he should have discussed this next move with her first. "In my claim to the lady's hand."

Stunned silence followed this announcement. Morwen's mouth fell open in silent horror. Across the hall, Cenhelm invoked the gods with every oath available in his native tongue. Wynflaed covered her eyes.

"Hurrah!"

Teitherion bustled forward, beard wagging, seizing Thengel's hands. "I knew it, I knew it. As soon as Lady Morwen dashed off to Minas Tirith after you, I knew it," he cried as he pumped Thengel's hands, accidentally elbowing Halmir in the gut. "Congratulations, your lordship. Oy there, Beldir, I was right and you owe me a silver piece!"

"I do not," they heard Beldir grump from his seat at the table. "Daft fool."

Teitherion ignored him. "Cunning of you to snatch her up before anyone else knew about her. Lord Halmir, excepted, of course." He winked several times. "Ah. I imagine it happened at Lossemeren. Quintessential time for romance. Again, I congratulate you. Oh, I know, I'll paint your wedding portrait."

"Yes, all right. Thank you," Thengel groused as he freed his hands. The artist's hands were dirty with old paint and greasy and gritty from the goats. Thengel turned his back on the effusions of the goat man and chanced a glance at his new rival.

Halmir's color changed as he adjusted his thoughts to this new claim. Then he laughed once, a tentative bark. When no one joined him, he glared at the assembly.

His brow puckered till it formed a single line across his forehead when he faced Thengel again. "You plan to rival me…for her? You must be joking."

Thengel stared placidly at the lordling. "The members of my household are here as witnesses." He nodded toward Wynflaed, who pointedly refused to meet his eye.

Halmir sneered as he brushed Morwen aside to stand toe to toe with the upstart thorn in his side. "What could you possibly want with a backwoods girl like Morwen? She's not a princess. Half the time she's up to her fingers in dirt."

"An epithet befitting a lover," Thengel replied dryly.

"What?" Halmir's expression darkened with loss of patience. "You intend to make her a great lady then?"

Something kindled within those half-lidded eyes of Thengel's that some found difficult to withstand. "The One made her that," he answered sternly.

Halmir shifted uneasily, but forced himself to grin. "What a farce." He laughed, more staccato barks that jangled Thengel's eardrums. "A prince with no country and a mud princess. Rohan must be very grand if you two are a sampling, a pen for the pigs to roll in."

"I'll skin him alive with a blunt knife," Wynflaed promised, no longer feigning sleepiness.

"Peace, Wynflaed," Thengel muttered in their tongue.

Wynflaed shot her brother an indignant look.

Halmir threw up his hands, turning his back on Thengel as if the discussion had come to an end. "Well, you can't have her."

A muscle tremored in Thengel's cheek. "Can't I?"

"No. She will marry me if she wishes to remain in Imloth Melui." Then to drive his point home, Halmir added, "you've seen what I'm capable of."

Morwen, who had been as still and unresponsive as a statue the entire time, turned wounded eyes on her cousin. Thengel wanted to reach out for her, to assure her that Halmir's threats held no weight anymore, but she looked like she might bolt if he tried.

Swallowing back his anger, Thengel said, "If she chooses me, she could have a country full of orchards at her command, which is more than you can give her now."

Halmir colored. "Well, as the head of the family I simply won't allow it."

"You won't?" Thengel asked, emphasizing each word. "How do you intend to stop me? It's her choice."

Halmir smirked. Belatedly, Thengel realized he had thrown his rival a boon. If she denied both of them, then his plan would unravel.

"So, it is her choice, is it?" Halmir crooned. "As you say. I have been waiting for an answer since Lossemeren. Do you have one, Morwen?"

Morwen stood like an ice sculpture with the blood drained from her face and limbs. Her eyes stared at some distant prospect, unseeing and nerveless. The horn rested in her palms like a millstone, her shoulders curving around it. Thengel had watched her from the corner of his eye during the unpleasant confrontation with Halmir and her silence worried him.

Gildis, he saw, had also noticed her mistress's expression. The old woman had disappeared into the kitchen with an armful of crockery. When she came back, she shooed Guthere out of the kitchen with her. Hareth followed behind with a rolling pin in her hand. Inauspicious, he thought.

"You can hardly expect Morwen to decide today," he said, returning his attention to his rival.

Halmir snorted derisively, but yielded. "Today. Tomorrow. No matter. I'll have my way. Remember what I told you, Morwen."

Halmir lingered long enough to see Morwen shudder and seem to curl in on herself at some shared memory before he turned his back and begin to chastise the men loitering nearby. They followed him out again.

Thengel touched Morwen's shoulder, her reaction not lost on him. What had Halmir said to her? And when had the rascal had the chance?

"Morwen," Thengel murmured, when they were gone.

She wouldn't look at him or respond and her expression lay hidden behind a screen of her dark hair.

"Listen, I'm going into the other room to speak to Gladhon about the errand to Arnach or do you wish to tell him yourself?"

"Take a walk, Thengel," Wynflaed ordered as she approached Morwen. "Give the girl a moment to consider your generous offer."

Thengel winced under his sister's sarcasm. His hand dropped from Morwen's shoulder, but before leaving her side, he said, "If you need me, I'll be in the study."

…

Cenhelm and the rest followed Thengel silently down the passage into the room. His skin prickled from the scrutiny directed at the back of his head, knowing they were all wondering what he'd just done.

"Close the door, please," he said over his shoulder as he entered the doorway leading into the adjacent bedroom. When he returned, he wore a clean tunic. He crossed to the desk where lay the leather wallet.

"Gladhon, I have a task for you." He turned, opened the wallet to reveal the sheet of paper scrawled over in his idiosyncratic script and the blueprints. "First thing tomorrow, I want you to deliver this message to Lady Ferneth in Arnach since you know the fief better than anyone here. Remember, you are to deliver it to her hand only. Understood?"

Gladhon cleared his throat. "With respect, my lord, I do not think it wise to leave you at this time."

The implications hung in the air and Thengel watched each of his men displaying varying expressions of unease over the gauntlet he'd thrown down in the hall. They worried about his safety, but they also worried about their own honor too, he deemed. And he didn't blame them. Courting Halmir's ire could have terrible implications for them if Thengel ended up wounded or worse.

"Well, ride quickly and you won't be absent for long," Thengel replied. "If you want to protect me and help Lady Morwen, you could not do better than see that letter reaches Lady Ferneth."

Gladhon weighed his options behind a stoic face before finally agreeing. "I could leave tonight."

"Tomorrow will suffice. As it is, you will need an escort to the South Road and I'd prefer sunlight there and back."

"Should I wait for a reply?"

Thengel replaced the papers in the wallet and sealed it again. "The lady will tell you what to do."

Gladhon gave him a curt nod.

"What good do you expect a bit of paper to do?" Thurstan asked.

"Maybe he's asking her permission to marry Lady Morwen?" Guthere added.

"Not quite, Guthere," Thengel answered as he turned and sat on the edge of the desk. "Perhaps nothing will come of it. Only my interview with Lord Turgon put a doubt in my mind and Wynflaed added to it. This Halmir strikes me as a pretender—"

The door flew in, banging against the wall and nearly shutting again from the force. The five men jumped in surprise as Morwen sailed into the study with the power of a siege engine. Her eyes were knifepoints, pinning each of them in turn until they caught Thengel. Wynflaed traipsed in behind her and found a corner from which to observe.

"Morwen, I just told them about Ferneth. Perhaps you would like—"

"How dare you," Morwen seethed, and as she did so, she raised her arm.

The horn sailed at Thengel's head. He ducked out of the way just in time to avoid catching it between the eyes. Cenhelm and Thurstan both scrambled to catch the relic before it hit the floor. It struck the back of one of Randir's overstuffed chairs and would have rolled off the cushion to the stone but for Cenhelm's reflexes.

"Morwen, that's a priceless—" Thengel began. He didn't get far before she was on him, dodging Thurstan, who tripped over Cenhelm in his attempt to protect Thengel. Guthere tried to intervene, but Wynflaed held him by the back of his tunic.

Morwen pummeled his chest with her fist while the men were too stunned or impaired to stop her.

"You promised to help me!" she accused.

"So I am," he answered, dodging away from her, then reaching for her arms. "The men of the Mark don't break their word."

Morwen recoiled away from him. "Setting yourself up as a second Halmir - that's help?" When she stood upright she could look him almost right in the eye.

The epithet stung him. "A second Halmir!" he groused. "That's hardly fair when I'm on your side."

"Forgive me if I'm insensible to how this helps me," she hissed. "You are arrogance itself, Prince Thengel, coming in here and taking over— no, stay away!"

Thengel had taken a cautious step toward her, arms raised, placating, a buffer in case she intended to gouge his eyes out like a beautiful, but very angry crow.

"Morwen," he said slowly, softly. "Let's talk. I think you've misunderstood."

"Oh, you've been very clear." She stepped back, out of his reach. "I trusted you and you tricked me. Adrahil warned me about you!"

"Morwen!" he growled, remembering very clearly Adrahil's warning to himself and not feeling particularly warm toward the prince at the moment. "Listen."

Thengel caught her wrists and held on when she tried to jerk away. She glared up at his face with renewed fierceness to compensate for being caught. When she tried to shake him off, she gasped and he looked down where he held her. Her sleeve had slipped down to her elbow and her skin below her hand had turned purple and black.

"What happened to your wrist," he demanded. "Did Halmir do that?"

Morwen's eyes burned. "Let go, you two-faced orc!"

Thengel gritted his teeth at the new name he'd earned for himself. Ungrateful woman! "Listen to me, for pity's sake—" he begged, holding on but afraid she would rather break a wrist than listen to an explanation.

Morwen glared at his hands on her wrists. "You're hurting me."

The ice in her voice burned him and he let go as if frostbitten. With a look of gray-eyed contempt, she swept out of the room, the door banging shut behind her.

Thengel stood there, feeling like he had been used as a punching bag. When he'd waited for her to react, his imagination had done her little justice. Morwen was like a birch leaf, he reflected; outwardly green and light and shapely, but when the wind picked up, she flashed silver in your eyes.

It stung.

"I enjoyed that." Wynflaed examined her chipped nails, having let go of Guthere. "I see what you mean about the steel. Funny she chose to use it against you though. That must hurt."

"Wynflaed, shut up."

Cenhelm hovered near Thengel's elbow with the horn cradled in his rough hands. Thengel glowered as he accepted it back. Still, his guard lingered.

"Yes, Cenhelm?"

Cenhelm cleared his throat. "When I said all those weeks ago that you might put your foot in it if you interfered here, that's what I meant," he told him helpfully.

"Yes, thank you," Thengel muttered.

"Stélescéne," Thurstan groaned from the floor, where he'd lain throughout the confrontation with hands over his head. "Wamme."

Steelsheen. Beauty with an edge.

Béma shield him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I've received a promotion at work, so I'm celebrating with another chapter update! And a portion of this chapter is dedicated to Thanwen. *ducks*
> 
> Steelsheen: I've read in Appendix A that the epesse was given to Morwen for her grace and pride, but to me it has a slightly edgier connotation. ;)
> 
> Wamme: OE. Woe is me!


	34. Steelsheen

Morwen sat on the bed; huddled under her robe, her arms wrapped protectively around her legs. She longed for the oblivion of sleep, but her mind had dissolved into a perpetual whirlpool that wouldn’t stop. 

Wynflaed knocked and let herself in. She frowned at Morwen’s nightdress. 

“Going to bed already?”

Morwen shook her head. “Not yet. I’m thinking.” 

Wynflaed came in and shut the door behind her. “About what?” 

“What do you think? Wynflaed, I’m terribly confused.” 

Wynflaed kicked off her boots before shimmying out of her dress. After she shoved her things into her pack, she climbed into bed in her shift. 

“I admit your cousin is deranged and his conversation hard to follow," she said eventually. "But I thought maybe my Westron isn’t as strong as I thought.” She huddled down under the covers then turned on her side away from Morwen, pulling the blankets up so that her feet stuck out in the cool air. 

Morwen stared down at Wynflaed. “I meant your brother is confusing.” 

“Oh? I always found Thengel’s behavior predictable." She rolled over to look at Morwen. "Although I guess you did look surprised tonight.” 

“I was!”

“I would’ve thought you’d have an idea. He told me all about it back in Minas Tirith.”

“What! He did?” 

“Well, more or less. Sort of.” She contemplated a callous on her big toe. “Come to think of it, he didn’t realize he did.” 

“Well, I had no idea," Morwen grumbled. 

“So? Now you do. Good night.” She rolled over so her back faced Morwen, pulling the blankets over her head. 

Morwen dragged the blanket off. “And did you know he was going to, to…” 

“What? Kiss you and raise a stink? I thought he’d wait until after you accepted the betrothal gift. Maybe he thought a horn was too suggestive and he wanted to warm you up to it?”

Morwen blushed. “Wynflaed!” 

“Isn’t that the proper order? I’m an outsider, so you’ll have to excuse my ignorance of betrothal customs in the south.” 

“It’s not that. You knew what that horn meant all along?” 

“Of course. Oswin brought it especially for that purpose. Mind you, he had to pry it from Fengel King's claws first. Father doesn't like to share his toys with Thengel." 

Morwen exhaled, scattering the strands of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. “But Thengel can’t mean for me to accept him, surely.”

Wynflaed rolled back over. “Why not? Oswin gave Thengel his blessing to marry you.”

Morwen’s mouth fell slack again. "Me! The marshal and I have only met twice." 

Wynflaed snorted. “He’s a decisive man, Morwen. Although, it helped that the Steward sanctioned the match.” 

Morwen hopped off the bed as if Wynflaed had brought a snake in with her, dancing over the cold stone on smarting toes. “Turgon!”

“He is the Steward,” Wynflaed told Morwen slowly, in case she’d grown suddenly daft. 

“Why on earth would he do that?” Morwen wailed. 

“Idhren gave you a glowing review.” 

Morwen shivered where she stood in the middle of the floor. She had thought she understood Adrahil’s reaction to Thengel better after the kiss, but this revelation felt like being swallowed by a sinkhole in comparison. 

Thengel acting alone was one thing, but Oswin, Turgon and Idhren created a menacing trifecta. No doubt Turgon had sent Adrahil to Dol Amroth to clear the way for the match. Morwen bunched her fists as white-hot anger flowed through her limbs, dispelling the cold. How busy they had all been! Although she figured largely in their plans, none of them seemed to think she merited an opinion — or even the courtesy of open debate! And now she owed Adrahil a very humble apology for her words in the stable yard. 

And someone certainly owed her an apology! How tired she felt of other people forming plans for her without taking her into consideration. Was she a woman or a rag doll? Morwen cast a sour look at one of the conspirators within reach. 

“How do you know all this?” she asked. 

“It’s my job to know. I’m Thengel’s bridal council — or I used to be.” 

Morwen felt her stomach drop to her ankles and she had to sit down on the bed again. “And why you’re in Lossarnach?” 

“For the opposite reason, actually. This match would be a mistake.” Wynflaed boosted herself upright on her elbows to squint at Morwen. You aren’t going to accept him, are you?” 

Morwen recoiled. “Of course I can’t accept him.” 

“Fine. Tell him in the morning, will you, so we can go home?”

“I certainly shall!” 

“Good. The whole thing would be a nightmare.”

“It would?" Despite herself, Morwen felt piqued. Then she shook herself. "Well, you don’t have to worry about that." 

“Not in your case, truly,” Wynflaed sighed. “But it means my work isn’t over yet.” She frowned. “It’ll take forever. How anyone could countenance marrying Thengel is a puzzle to me.” 

“You’re his sister. It’s not something you should countenance.” 

“So? I can be objective, particularly when it comes to Thengel’s lack of merits.”

“What lack of merits?” 

Wynflaed eyebrows drooped low like disbelieving rainclouds. “You can’t think of any on your own? Not even after tonight?” 

“Up until now, I would have said no," Morwen answered truthfully. "Now? I’m disappointed and angry that he’s taking advantage of what’s happening here.” 

“Thengel’s taking advantage of you?” Wynflaed surprised her by hooting with laughter. “Don’t make me laugh again. It gives me a cramp in my side.” 

Morwen crossed her arms over her chest. “Wynflaed, I’m serious.” 

“Sorry, what exactly is it you have to offer that he needs so badly?" Wynflaed chortled. "Any other woman could give him an heir. You’re only marginally related to some princes; you have no wealth to speak of, and you would be completely useless in Meduseld. If anything, you’d be a handicap to his status and reign.”

Morwen felt her temper rising again. Wynflaed made her sound like the last fish at market. “Then why did he ask, if it’s so terrible? Turgon and Oswin don’t seem to think any of those things are a weakness.”

“Are you even old enough to get married?” Wynflaed sat up and squinted at her. 

Morwen scratched her arm. “I expect so. I’ll be twenty-one…eventually.” 

Wynflaed snorted. “Twenty-one. I am old enough to be your mother. Lord, why can’t anyone else think about these details besides me?”

That was another doubt Morwen felt. “Wynflaed, do you think that Thengel really knows what he’s asking — or why?” 

“Who can answer for an idiot?” 

“But he’s not an idiot.” 

“Sorry. I forgot." Wynflaed jabbed a finger at her. "You phrased it better. Two-faced orc has a nice ring to it. Not a bad epithet for someone who never grew up with any brothers of her own.” 

Morwen covered her face. “I shouldn’t have called him that, especially in front of all of you. He’s not an orc. He’s just making a mistake.” 

“That’s putting it mildly," Wynflaed said as she shook her head at the ceiling. "He’s got strange notions about right and wrong and it just makes a mess. He’s a rescuer, but he doesn’t use his head." Then she muttered under her breath, "if he did, he wouldn’t be in exile.” 

“Wasn’t he young when that happened?”

Wynflaed gave her a wry frown. “Can you tell me he’s changed since then?” 

“In twenty years, I expect he has. I do know that he’s well respected in Minas Tirith."

“Just a second ago you were throwing things at his head. Now you’re making excuses. Béma,” Wynflaed said with a cunning grin, “you must be in love with him too.” 

Morwen felt her skin burn from her throat to the tops of her ears. “Me?” she sputtered. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never been in love in my life!” 

“And you aren’t going to start now, is that it?” 

Morwen swallowed. “It’s the principle of the thing.” 

“Oh, principles. Never had much use for those myself.” 

• “Excuse me, my house is falling down around my ears. It’s not the time or the place. And he shouldn’t have surprised everyone like that!”

“My girl, you’re the only one who’s surprised, remember.” 

Morwen shivered as her anger returned. If she returned to Minas Tirith any time soon, she would find greater missiles for her frustration than a paltry horn. Steward Turgon had better just brace himself. 

“Let me be clear, Wynflaed, if I’m to marry anyone, it’s not because a bunch of old men or busybodies like Lady Idhren have decided it behind closed doors!”

Wynflaed shrugged. “Fine with me. Just so we’re clear, I don’t want you to be queen. Your feelings for Thengel won’t help me any.” 

“I’ll think or feel whatever I like about your brother, without any reference to you or anyone else.”

“Whatever you like. I still think we’re of one mind.” 

“Are we?” And what was that? The conversation had grown so circular she didn’t know which way they had landed.

“Yes, thank you. You’ve lifted a weight from my mind.” Then Wynflaed rolled onto her stomach, leaving Morwen to look at a pile of straw colored hair. The woman began snoring within a minute. 

“You haven’t lifted one from mine,” Morwen muttered into her pillow.   
…

 

Wynflaed’s snores kept the time as the evening wore away into the early hours of the morning. Shaky from lack of sleep and an anxious spirit, Morwen climbed out of bed and felt around for her robe. Quietly, she padded her way to the kitchen, careful not to wake the men sleeping in the hall. 

Hareth and Gildis were awake, sharing a pot of tea together. They looked at her with surprise, but masked it quickly. Hareth poured her a fresh cup of tea while Gildis pushed Morwen onto the bench. 

“So,” said Gildis, after Morwen had taken a sip or two of her drink, “It’s been an eventful two days. Now you know about the trees.” 

“I wish someone had sent me word,” Morwen answered. 

Gildis’s eyebrows descended low over her eyes and she looked sour. “You think we didn’t want to?” 

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s been horrible for everyone.” 

The cook and the housekeeper glanced at one another and seemed hardly to know what to say to her. 

“You must have seen a lot of Prince Thengel in Minas Tirith, then,” Hareth ventured. 

Morwen flattened her palms on the table and stared at the white tips of her fingers. “Listen, the pair of you, I’m as surprised as everyone else by what occurred last night.” 

All her life, courtship, romance, and marriage - these were things that happened to other women. She had grown up in a happy home and had entered womanhood with a vocation and a purpose. She worked alongside men in the fields - did she need one in the house, as well? She simply hadn’t thought about it. 

And now she had to drink a bitter cup for her disregard.

Gildis snorted. “I’m not surprised.” 

“What? Don’t tell me you knew!” 

“I didn’t know a thing, but I have eyes,” Gildis insisted. “I remember the way he looked at you when they arrived here. As soon as you walked in the Prince’s eyes followed you wherever you went as if you were the only thing in the room.” 

“What was his alternative? Guthere’s wound?” Morwen retorted. She hoped she was a pleasanter sight than that. 

“Well, I’m only saying that I thought it very interesting and maybe if he knew you more, anything might happen.” 

Hareth piped up, “Oh - don’t forget about the barrel - he’s none too found of Lord Halmir, that’s certain. I swore to Nanneth right on the spot that he must be jealous.” 

Jealous! Morwen listened with growing dismay. 

“Why shouldn’t he want to marry you? You’re not just some backwoods girl, no matter what Lord Halmir said. You’re the daughter of Lord Randir and Lady Hirwen.” 

“That’s as good as a princess, to my mind,” Hareth chimed in. 

A ringing endorsement after Wynflaed’s analysis of her status. Morwen had to pinch her fingers together to hide her growing agitation. Neither of the older women realized how little they were helping her frame of mind. 

“And we all know you’d be wasted on a fool like Halmir.” 

“Imagine our Morwen courted by a prince. It’s the wonder of the age,” Hareth mused unhelpfully. “Though it wasn’t very kind of young Halmir to go on about the dirt. For all her gadding about the fields she’s very clean.” 

“No, she isn’t,” Gildis croaked. 

Morwen glared, but they remained dauntless in their assessment of the evening and of their mistress’s merits. 

“What’s the matter, Lady Morwen? Aren’t you happy?” 

Morwen blinked at them. “Happy?” 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Hareth. Remember, Lady Morwen didn’t answer him yet,” Gildis continued gravely. “There’s a lot to consider. It would be a tidy end to Lord Halmir’s plans, that’s certain, and I, for one, would like to know what you will choose to do.” 

Morwen fought the urge to lay her head down on the table as she listened. It was the sort of sulking Ioneth would indulge in - though truth be told, Morwen had begun to feel like Ioneth. Irritable, squelching, and distracted. It didn’t help that the key members of her household chose to raise their banners alongside the prince’s. Why couldn’t they be on her side? Whatever that was. 

She liked Thengel. Up until now, he had treated her kindly. He reminded her what it felt like to be teased and to be thoughtful, not working all the time, not so mechanical. That’s it, she realized. Since her father’s death she had grown mechanical. Thengel had helped shake her from the mind-numbing routine she’d adopted in order to cope with loss and new responsibility. That had to have a value. But did it mean she could love him? 

A feeling like ice water flooded her belly. Was she afraid to answer the question? What would happen if she did? Morwen felt like she was losing her balance. She wanted to shut her door against all the change coming at her like a devouring wave. Whatever control she might have had slipped through her fingers like grains of sand, no matter how tightly she tried to grip them. 

The secrecy and the plotting disgusted her, not to mention the way Thengel had surprised and embarrassed her, just the way Halmir had. She resented him for accentuating her difficulties when he had asked her to trust him. She wished she had used more caution and followed Adrahil’s advice! 

And that was another thing. If forced to choose either Halmir or Thengel, she would still lose her home. What could Thengel be thinking? Would he refuse to return to Rohan for her? Of course not. And did he assume she would pack up and follow him? Had he thought this through at all? She could blame him for that, but then, the truth is she had to blame herself for blindly trusting him in the first place. 

She needed to stop being so naive. How did one do that? Was there a book she could read? Or did she have to keep making mistakes to learn? A book sounded less time consuming and more practical. 

“I don’t know, Gildis,” she finally answered. 

“My.” Hareth clucked her tongue, oblivious to Morwen’s distress. “I remember the to-do when Lady Hirwen brought home a lord of the house of Belfalas. That was news then.”

“It was, wasn’t it,” Gildis replied with the wistful air of one remembering fond, but long distant memories. “Lord Hathol accused him of putting on airs. Remember? He always thought the lords of Belfalas were a bit stuck up.” 

“He was blessed tall, wasn’t Lord Randir? I always said Lady Hirwen matched his height in temperament.” Hareth chuckled to herself. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a wedding in Imloth Melui like to theirs.” 

Morwen listened to the interlude with a jaundiced heart and mind. The memories of her parents’ happy marriage did the opposite of soothe her spirits. The current situation did not portend half so well for her prospects. 

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked, interrupting their reminiscing. “I mean, to get rid of them and go on as I have done?” 

“Who?” Hareth asked. 

Morwen rolled her eyes. “Halmir and Prince Thengel, of course.”

“What, you don’t want either of them?” Hareth gasped. “Not even Prince Thengel? That is a surprise. Guthere speaks so well of him.” 

“How is Guthere these days?” Morwen asked crisply. 

Hareth bit her tongue. Then she said, “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that…” 

“Not tonight, Hareth. It’s late and Lady Morwen has other things to worry about.” Gildis rose, then patted Morwen on the shoulder. “Let them fight it out, my lady. There’s nothing you can do that’s worse than what they can do to one another. Who knows? Perhaps they’ll knock each other both out of reckoning.” 

“And if not, what then?” 

“Then you will have to decide what you want.” Gildis opened her mouth, and then shut it again, the better to think. “If I can give you one piece of advice, Lady Morwen,” she urged, “I think you might want to consider what you can gain rather than what you might lose.” 

That sounded too much like something Adrahil had told her. The question wasn’t if she meant to keep Imloth Melui or lose it — but how she meant to keep it, or how she meant to lose it. She didn’t know the answer, only that it would be harder to puzzle out - no thanks to Thengel, his sister, and their stupid council! 

“Besides, Lady Morwen, not matter what you decide, you’ll always have us. We’re your home and family more than any old house or garden.” Then Hareth added, hastily, “And I’ve grown curious about Rohan myself lately.” Morwen heard the door open behind her and saw Hareth’s eyes widen like an owl’s. “Good gracious, it’s the Prince.”   
…

Morwen’s shoulders bunch as she slowly turned in her seat to look behind her. Thengel had halted on the threshold and looked ready to back out again. His undershirt hung loosely around his thighs and his trousers looked rumpled, as if he too had climbed out of bed after little sleep. 

Seeing him in person rather than in theory rekindled her earlier ire. Couldn’t she sit in her own kitchen without being plagued? 

Hareth rose quickly and the two women dismissed themselves, though Hareth poured out a new cup of tea and shoved it at him before going. 

“Sit down, please, my lord,” Gildis politely ordered. When she passed Morwen on the way out, she squeezed her arm as though willing Morwen to speak to him.

Thengel sat down in Gildis’s seat at the head of the table where the tea had landed, looking like a bow ready to spring at a moment’s notice if he had to vacate the chair. The mug looked dwarfed by his hand as he automatically reached for it. They said nothing. He drank tea and seemed to study the leaves floating around the bottom of the mug. She stared out the window and drank her own tea. The reflection in the glass allowed her to look at him without actually looking. She noticed the drawn weariness in his face. 

Morwen’s heart jumped into her throat when she saw Thengel’s glass counterfeit look up at her finally. He tried to smile. 

“I didn’t mean to stay,” Thengel began. “Just looking for a drink.” 

“Hm.” Morwen supposed he had a right to be thirsty. She poured herself more tea and set the pot on the far side of the table. 

“So…you couldn’t sleep either?” he ventured. 

“A strange day makes for poor sleeping,” she answered coldly. 

Thengel eyed the tabletop again. 

“Wynflaed told me a very interesting story,” she went on. “Do you know what is was about?” 

Thengel rubbed the side of his jaw. “Morwen…” 

She held up her hand to silence him. “The chief characters are your uncle Oswin, Steward Turgon, and Lady Idhren. The chorus parts were supplied by a city of gossips and Wynflaed. The villain of the piece —”

“Morwen, listen…” 

“I’m afraid to,” she snapped. “You say such odd things.” 

Thengel leaned back in the chair, resting his hands on his knees. “I’m sorry.” 

“For which part? Sorry that you’re courting me or sorry that I’m the last one to know about it?” 

He winced. 

“Or is it both?” she drawled. “I think I could make it both.” 

“I can explain.” 

“I’ll be very surprised if you can,” she countered. 

Thengel’s eye squeezed shut with exasperation. “Let me get a word in edgewise, then see for yourself.” 

Morwen relented enough to hold her tongue. She listened in icy silence for him to produce anything like a rationale for his behavior. 

“Remember I mentioned Thunor and the suitors?” he asked. 

Morwen frowned. That wasn’t the tack she’d expected him to take. She tried to recall the morning in the orchard when Thengel had read to them from that book of Northern tales. An idea struck her. 

“Do you mean to say that another hundred suitors are going to show up,” she asked sourly, “because two will suffice!” 

Thengel’s eyes brightened with impatience. “No,” he groused. “Remember, when I asked you how Thunor defeated the suitors?” 

“He set up a contest.” 

“Yes, but more importantly, he took on a disguise,” he explained. “If the suitors knew Thunor’s true identity, they would’ve killed him outright and his plan would’ve failed.”

Morwen wrinkled her nose. “You’re afraid Halmir will kill you?” 

Thengel scoffed. “No, but if he knew I returned to help you oust him, he’d dig in his heels about the orchard. Now he believes I’m here to woo you instead, orchard be damned.”

“Aren’t you?” she retorted. “That’s certainly the impression that you’ve given everyone.” 

“Morwen, consider it a disguise. Can’t you see a little misdirection will halt more felling of trees?”

“You think pretending to be my lover will make him back down?” she asked skeptically, absentmindedly soothing her wrist. “Halmir is very determined.” 

“It’ll embarrass him, more like. A man like Halmir doesn’t take humiliation easily and I think it will lead him to do something stupid.” 

“That’s all very well for you to deceive him, but what about me? What will be the consequences for us? From what Wynflaed has told me, this isn’t a charade to anyone else in Minas Tirith. How am I supposed to answer you?” she pleaded. 

Thengel started to reach for her, but then thought better of it and withdrew his hand. “Listen, you don’t have to tell Halmir positively that you’ve accepted me, just as long as you don’t positively reject me either. Showing indecision would work best. As long as there’s a rival, there’s time. ”

“Time for what?” 

“Time for Lady Ferneth to assume her right to govern Lossarnach as Forlong’s guardian and for her to come assert herself here.”

“Ferneth?” she breathed. 

Thengel nodded. “I started mulling it over in Minas Tirith. See, unless Hardang specified otherwise in his will, or if she chose to forfeit her right to a male relative, the child’s mother could become regent. If she’s forfeited to Halmir, then there’s nothing we can do. But if she hasn’t, you have a chance to protect the orchard through her.” 

A chance? Morwen leaned forward on her elbows as a doubt rose in her mind. “But that would mean Halmir has been acting out of turn this whole time.” She cupped her forehead in her hand. “He wouldn’t have any actual authority to do what he’s done.” 

“None whatsoever, if my suspicions are correct. 

“But he has! She must have forfeited. Not even Halmir would be that audacious.” 

Thengel’s expression twisted in disgust. “Don’t be so sure. If she hasn’t, then you’d be out of Bar-en-Ferin by now. If Ferneth has her son’s authority, she will always be a threat to Halmir’s ambitions for this place.” 

“Ugh.” Morwen could taste the disgust on her tongue. “I never thought to question his word. He said Ferneth had no say in the matter.”

“You mean he doesn’t wish her to have a say.” 

“But what sort of idiot would lie about facts that could be verified so easily?” 

“Because he only needed you to believe him long enough to fall into his trap. If you marry him, then he’ll have a claim to the estate through you, under the agreement with your parents. The more I think it over, the more I’m convinced this is what happened.” 

Morwen turned her cup in her hands while she took in this new frame for Halmir’s behavior. Then she looked at Thengel. “How can you be sure?” 

“Adan and Beleg said something at Lossemeren that I recall. Ferneth’s been too quiet, not herself. He’s exactly the sort of man to use her convalescence to his advantage. We need to find out what’s really going on at the Garth, but in the meantime, we also need to distract Halmir so he leaves you and your house alone.” 

It made sense. The show of power. The paranoia. Halmir’s obvious lack of any real regard for her contrasting with his insistence that they marry. Then another idea occurred to her. 

“It isn’t just Ferneth who’s a threat to his ambitions,” she said. “It’s you.” 

“I know,” he mumbled. “That’s the plan.” 

Morwen shook her head. “No, no. I mean before now, even before Lossemeren.”

He looked surprised. “What do you mean?” 

“Did I tell you Halmir sent me gifts around the time you arrived with Guthere? He’s never done so before and I had them returned. He found out by gossiping with the courier.” She scoffed. “He made some wild accusations about you the night of the feast, that you would prey on me. He must have made his announcement that day because he feared he would lose his opportunity to take over here while you remained.” She groaned into her hands. “It makes sense. He’d all but admitted it.” 

“He’s an opportunistic rascal,” Thengel snarled. 

Morwen glared at Thengel through her fingers. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Me?” He had the gall to look surprised again. 

“Everyone seems to be ten feet ahead of me these days, especially you. If you knew all this, why didn’t you explain it to me beforehand?” 

“It’s Wynflaed who put the idea in my head, but frankly, I’ve been thinking on my feet.” 

“So what am I supposed to do with this thing you’ve set in motion?” 

“Halmir has to believe my suit. I don’t want him to force your hand, Morwen, if he becomes desperate. Once you’re married to him, Ferneth’s hands are tied.” 

“I will never marry Halmir,” she vowed. 

“He’ll try to take the decision away from you.” Thengel told her with brutal honesty. She shuddered and looked away, knowing he was right. “Now at least his attention will turn away from badgering you or creating further damage to the orchard.” 

“Toward you?” 

“As his rival, yes. Unless you positively reject me.” 

That sounded very well, except for what Wynflaed had told her earlier. “You aren’t really in love with me like your sister believes?” 

“I promised to help you,” he said stiffly. “In a hand fight you use your opponent’s momentum against him. As you say, Halmir already suspects a degree of relationship between us.” His expression softened to something like regret. “Don’t look so worried. I’d never try to trap you.” 

Morwen hadn’t used that language, but she realized now that Thengel’s ruse felt like a trap and that her resentment stemmed from that source. He wouldn’t be the first to use her naïveté and trust against her. Halmir had done so with spectacular results. But the trap Thengel had laid wasn’t for her; it was for her cousin all along. At least, partially. 

“What about Turgon and Oswin?” she asked. 

He frowned. “What about them?” 

“Wynflaed didn’t make them up.” 

Thengel studied the leaves at the bottom of his mug. “Morwen, this is the Third Age. What does it matter what two old men want? Once they find out how good your aim is they won’t push anything.”

Morwen’s hand flew to her mouth.

A smile ghosted over his lips. “That’s the Horn of Eorl, by the way, an heirloom of my house.” 

That was an heirloom? What had Thengel done? She thought it was a well crafted, but common hunting horn. A relic of the house of Eorl, and she’d thrown it at his head! 

Morwen cringed. “At least I missed.” 

Thengel leaned forward and laughed into his hands. “Barely. I may be older than you, but fortunately my reflexes are still good.” 

“I wish you had told me,” she groaned. “It would have spared us both some unflattering behavior.” 

“I thought I played the part handsomely. You did get a few punches in, didn’t you?” he reminded her. 

Morwen glared at him. 

“Listen, you drove that point home, Morwen,” he said earnestly. “I promise to keep you abreast of any new developments.” 

“Very considerate of you,” she said dryly. 

“Do you forgive me, then?”

“Did I hit you very hard?” 

“Well, I won’t say I didn’t miss my hauberk at the time.” 

Impulsively, Morwen leaned over the table and kissed him on the cheek. 

The laughter drained from Thengel’s face as he searched hers. “Is that how they show pardon in Lossarnach?” 

“I’m not sure I’m ready to pardon you yet,” she said pointedly. “But we’ll call it a truce. Shake hands and please don’t tell your uncle what I’ve done.” 

He shrugged. “No harm done.”

“I’m serious,” she said. 

His eyes flicked toward the closed door, then back down at her. He took her hand and kissed it. His eyes narrowed on her hand. Instead of releasing her hand, his fingers gently slipped back the cuff of her sleeve, revealing the bruises. 

“There’s a story in that.” 

Morwen released her hand from his hand laid it in her lap. “The sooner Halmir leaves, the better.”

Thengel’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his suspicions confirmed. “I knew it.” His right hand moved to his hip, as if feeling for the sword he had left behind in his rooms. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Wynflaed came.” She shrugged, hiding her hand in her lap again. “What could you have done after the fact? Besides —” 

“Stringing him up in the meat-house would be too good for him!” Thengel growled. “Scatha’s teeth, Morwen. He’s walking around free right now. Why didn’t Wynflaed shred him to ribbons?” 

Morwen leaned away from the heat of his anger. “There. You see? He’s the acting lord of Lossarnach — or the next in line. You can’t just kill him without repercussions. Yes, I know it’s disgusting, but it’s true, even for a prince.” 

“Then we’ll have him arrested and tried. You have a witness to the assault.” 

“Oh yes, so his friends can smirk at me from the jury bench,” she hissed. “Remember who he is, Thengel, and who he is in Lossarnach, especially.” 

Thengel’s eyes burned as he listened to her. “That shouldn’t make a difference.” 

“I know very well what my chances would be!” she choked. “His peers will acquit him out of pity for not getting all that he came for! Meanwhile I’ll walk away with a smear on my name because of what could have happened.” 

“Ferneth wouldn’t allow that, Morwen, and we shouldn’t let him get away with it.” 

“Thengel, suppose Ferneth does claim her right, but what if Lossarnach doesn’t back her claim?” 

Thengel looked doubtful. “I’ll think of something.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she sighed. 

His eyebrows knitted together. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t handle more of your surprises.” 

Thengel glanced away quickly, but not before she noticed something like hurt in his eyes. He knew she was teasing him, surely. She felt a seed of unease germinating in her belly and she reached for him. 

“Thengel…” 

He pushed the chair back and rose. “It’s late, Morwen. We should both get some rest.” But he waited at the door when she didn’t follow. 

“You go on. There’s still some tea in the pot,” she told him.

He nodded. “Good night, Morwen. We’ll talk again in the morning.” 

“Good night.” 

When the door closed behind him and she felt sure he wouldn’t come back, she crossed her arms on the table and finally rested her head down with a loud groan. She wondered if they weren’t back where they started before he explained everything.


	35. Hornet's Nest

Morwen woke long after Wynflaed had disappeared from the room, the consequence of her late night. Her thoughts came in woolly hanks that disintegrated as soon as she tried to pull on one. Rising late always made her feel out of sorts. She slipped out of bed and dressed quickly, not bothering to braid her hair. She barely made it into the passage when Prince Thengel appeared from the study, looking cautiously in her direction. He was dressed for riding and she saw both a sheathed sword and a leather pouch hanging from his belt. 

“Good morning,” she mumbled with more rote than feeling. 

“Can we talk in private?” he asked. “No, not in the library. Cenhelm and the rest had to sleep in there.” 

Hareth would be ensconced in the kitchen by now. Anywhere else wouldn’t guarantee privacy — except one place. Silently, she beckoned for him to follow her back into the bedroom. He paused on the threshold before entering. 

“This is your bedroom,” he observed. 

“They’re all my bedrooms,” she grumped. “I just sleep in this one.” 

The corner of Thengel’s mouth slanted upward and he preceded her inside. She closed the door softly behind him, then gestured toward the table and chair under the window. His eyes swept the space, then fixed on a point beyond the windowpane. 

“That’s Wynflaed’s pack,” he said. 

Morwen had to look around to spot the object, since he wasn’t looking at it. She found the weatherbeaten bag slumped between the wall and her clothes chest. 

“How observant you are this morning. She’s staying in here with me.” 

“Good.” 

Thengel took his place in the chair under the window, moving the sword out of the way of the legs. Morwen hastily drew the coverlet over the mattress and sat down on the edge of the bed. 

“What did you wish to speak to me about?” she asked. 

“I’m heading out shortly, as soon as Thurstan and Gladhon dress and eat. Gladhon will deliver my messages and Halmir’s blueprints to Ferneth in Arnach and we’ll make sure he gets to the South Road. I came to see if you have a message for her, as well. You never did tell me your idea.” 

Morwen rose and crossed the room, feigning interest in her wardrobe as a feeling of reluctance compressed her ribs. “Well,” she said hesitantly. “It sounded better yesterday when I first thought of it.” 

Yesterday the idea had given her wings. In the light of a new days, she began to feel that some of the primary feathers were missing from it. 

“What is it?” 

“Well, don’t laugh,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Promise?” 

Thengel nodded once. “Tell me.” 

She stood over him, then leaned in to whisper in his ear, hoping it would make the plan sound less embarrassing if he couldn’t hear most of it. When she finished, she withdrew and waited for his reaction. 

Thengel scratched his jaw, looking at her through wide eyes. “You want Ferneth to bring their wives and mothers to Imloth Melui?” he repeated. 

Morwen cringed, feeling like a fool. “Well, I know it will take time to put it together, but I thought maybe it’ll work to shift the squatters? We’ve focused on Halmir for so long, but maybe that’s the wrong tack to take? Their families must want them to come home. Without his men to insulate him, Halmir won’t hold out for long,” she rambled to avoid a terrible silence when he didn’t immediately respond. “At least, I don’t think he will. Perhaps. I don’t know — I’m new to strategizing.” 

Thengel’s eyes grew brighter while she rambled. When his lips began to twitch, he covered his mouth and looked down. 

Morwen rounded on him. “Don’t you dare!” she said. “Your ideas are hardly more conventional.” 

“Granted,” he drawled through his fingers. Morwen’s eyes widened with silver indignation when he kicked back in the chair and indulged in full-throated laughter. 

“You promised!” she complained over the sound of his merriment at her expense. 

Thengel ducked his head, but his shoulders still shook. “I’m sorry,” he chuckled. “It’s a good plan.” 

“Liar. You’re laughing at me.” 

“No! It’s excellent, assuming those men are still capable of feeling shame,” he quipped. “Truly. I wish I had thought of it.” 

“I don’t believe you,” she said dourly. 

Thengel forced himself into a state of composure. Rising, he held her by the shoulders. “I’m sorry, Morwen. I promise I’m not laughing at you, but you must see the joke.” 

Morwen crossed her arms over her chest, as if cradling the remnants of her wounded pride. “I wish I’d never told you,” she grumbled. 

“Well, you have,” he told her, patting her arms, “you’re right, though. It will take some time to organize. All the more reason to get Gladhon on the road. I wonder if I should send Thurstan too? They could both help.” 

“But you do think it will work?” she asked skeptically. 

The skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled at her. “Oh yes, Steelsheen. Scatha’s teeth! I wouldn’t want to face a mob like that for anything.” He broke out into more peels of laughter. 

Steelsheen? Morwen looked askance. What was that supposed to mean? “I beg your pardon?” 

“Nevermind.” He sighed happily. “I’m going to tell Ecthelion to add you to his war council. We could use a fresh perspective.” 

“You will not,” she sniffed, certain he really was laughing at her again. “It probably won’t work.” 

“Listen, you and I know it’s not about numbers,” he told her with more sobriety in his voice. “These men are in a hard spot. Do they obey the so-called lord of the fief, their neighbor, or do what their consciences say? Assuming they have consciences. If it were a mere matter of numbers, the residents in the valley could have run them out long before.” 

“The people of Imloth Melui are afraid of Halmir too,” Morwen told him. “Except Teitherion.” 

Thengel chuckled again. “But in this case, the Arnach men may fear their wives more than Halmir. It’s worth a try.” 

“That’s what I hope.” Morwen shrugged. “I can’t imagine what their families must think. It’s been weeks since Lossemeren.” 

“If your guess is correct, these woman probably want to know what’s keeping their menfolk for so long. Granted, I doubt most of them can afford to pick up for a few days and follow Ferneth. That’s the only sticky spot.” 

“We don’t need them all,” Morwen pointed out. “Remember, Ferneth is the most valuable gambit.” 

“And the women are her rooks?” 

Morwen nodded. “It’ll be her court versus Halmir’s.” 

Thengel stared out the window, seeing nothing as he calculated in his mind. “Let’s see. It’s a day’s ride to Arnach. She will need time to gather whoever she can, then another day’s ride back here. I judge they couldn’t get here before three days. So we need to keep Halmir distracted for at least that long.”

Morwen remembered the last time he had decided to get Halmir’s attention and the kiss that had followed. Perhaps that’s where his thoughts now bent for he studied her face with a concentration that made her feel somehow as if she were drawn into deep water. 

“Hadn’t you better be on your way now?” she whispered. 

Thengel blinked and she felt as if she had been instantly released from a strong eddy in the Erui. 

“Yes.” Then his expression became stern. “Listen, Morwen, Cenhelm and Wynflaed will stay here with you and your folk. The rest of us should be back a little after noon. Watch yourself.” 

“You too.” 

Thengel wished her good morning as she let him out of the room and began to follow. But Morwen bumped into Thengel’s back when he stopped short of the threshold. The door to the linen cupboard kitty-corner from her room closed at the same moment, revealing Hundor who clutched a pile of cloths and a bar of soap in his arms. Morwen gaped at him from around Thengel’s arm. She hadn’t seen her youngest cousin once since they arrived! 

“What are you doing in here?” Thengel demanded. 

Hundor’s quick eyes took in the entirety of the situation. “Ah. I see which way the wind’s blowing. Don’t mind me. I’ll let myself out.” With a smirk he scarpered down the passage to the hall, contraband in hand. 

Morwen pressed her forehead against Thengel’s shoulder blade and cringed. She felt him tense under her touch. What inauspicious timing! Hundor would have a field day imagining what he’d witnessed. 

“I wondered where he’d gotten to,” she groaned into Thengel’s back. “I had hoped he’d gone home.” 

“I told Cenhelm and Guthere to check every room,” Thengel groused over his shoulder. 

“I’m sure they did,” she replied, stepping around him into the passage. “Who knows how many opportunities he had to get back inside. There’s only so many of us.” 

“Shall I go after him?” he asked. 

To tear his limbs off, seemed to be implied. 

Morwen shook her head. “Let him be. I’d rather you get on the road with Gladhon. From the looks of him, Hundor wanted a wash more than he wanted mischief.” 

“He’ll manage both before long,” Thengel muttered. 

“Believe me, I know,” Morwen answered. “Focus on Ferneth, Thengel. She’s the only one who can curb those two.” 

Thengel frowned but held his peace. They parted ways at the study door.

….

Despite her words to Thengel, Morwen pursued Hundor on her own. She caught him lingering over a bowl of old fruit on the table in the hall. The only good Morwen could foresee from her late rising was that the men forced to sleep on pallets in the hall had already woken up and cleared into the kitchen. She wanted to face Hundor without an audience. 

“Where have you been hiding, then?” she demanded. 

Hundor’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline as he pocketed one of last year’s withered apples that Hareth had unearthed in the cellar. “Who me? I’ve kept Beldir’s shed warm in his absence.” He winked at her. “But, eh, he doesn’t have a bathtub.” 

“You have no right to use his house,” she said sternly. “If you want a bath, why don’t you return to your own home?” 

“But it’s so dull back in Arnach.” Then Hundor grinned. “Tell me, cousin Morwen, when did Prince Thengel get free rein in your bedroom?”

“Hundor.” Her voice grew low in warning. She wasn’t going to apologize to Hundor for having a conversation with Thengel in her room, especially when nothing had happened. She certainly didn’t owe anyone else an explanation! 

“Don’t you have anything more interesting to do than spy on me?” she challenged. 

“No. Nothing half as interesting as you at the moment,” Hundor drawled dispassionately. He set down the stolen goods on the table, hands splayed on the wood, he leaned over it toward her. “You know, I’ve been puzzling over something in particular.” 

“I am not in the least interested in what goes on in your twisted mind,” she began coldly.

But Hundor started talking over her. “It hurt Halmir’s pride, you know, when you ran off after that old prince. Personally, I don’t understand it. He’s got to be thirty years older than you. Were all the real knights already taken? Or is it only the feeble ones past their prime who want you?”

“Feeble! Are you blind?” 

“I guess you’d know better than I,” he said. “Though that was an interesting display at the well yesterday.” 

Morwen felt a rush of heat from her chest to her ears. In her mind, she knew that in the yard they were always under watch, but to have it boldly proclaimed in particular, made her cheeks and throat burn. 

Hundor laughed at her discomfort. “I suppose you felt you had to reciprocate. Tell me, did he decide to marry you before or after sampling the goods?” 

Morwen’s hands clenched into fists. The smirk on Hundor’s lips disappeared and his eyes went round. She took a step toward him and he nearly fell over a chair in his haste to escape through the doors. He forgot his soap and cloths. Morwen blinked at her fists, surprised by her own force. She hadn’t even tried to hit him! 

But then she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. She gasped and spun around. Thengel had come up from behind without a sound. Whatever expression had been on his face beforehand disappeared behind a blank mask. She felt oddly disappointed. 

“I didn’t scare him away, did I?” she asked wryly. 

Thengel gave her an innocent look. “Did he need scaring?” 

“Stop pretending,” she chided. “I know you heard everything he said.” 

Thengel dropped the bland smile. “Where did you come by this family of yours anyway?”

Morwen didn’t have a satisfactory answer. “Where are the others?” she deflected. 

“Following.” Thengel looked back over his shoulder as Cenhelm, Thurstan and Gladhon joined them in the hall. Morwen wished them good morning and told them to find breakfast in the kitchen. They thanked her and disappeared in that direction. 

Then Thengel observed, “Hundor’s going to make mischief for you with Halmir after what he saw. I’m sorry.” 

“Well, won’t it further the charade?” she sighed, resigned that one ill timed conversation had given her cousins something more to plague her with. Yet, she felt determined to turn his triumph around on him. What had Thengel said last night? Use Halmir’s momentum against him. “We both know this plan will take time to unfold and in the meantime, we’ve got to keep Halmir on his toes. Don’t we?” 

Something flickered in Thengel’s countenance. “You’re resolved then?”

Morwen said bitterly, “It’ll be a pleasure to give them a good set down.” She would deal with the consequences after they were gone. 

“Just be careful,” Thengel told her. “I’ll see you when we get home.”

***

Morwen saw Thengel and the others off after they had eaten breakfast. None of Halmir’s men had yet made an appearance in the yard, but Cenhelm helped her and Gundor feed the remaining horses and turn them out to pasture afterward. It felt odd when she had first returned home, but gradually Morwen grew used to being shadowed by Wynflaed. 

But Cenhelm had a way of making his presence felt without a word or action, which she found disconcerting. She knew he had a fastidious sense of duty that sometimes resulted in conflict between Thengel and the captain. The reason manifested itself. Everything about Cenhelm seemed to say, “Stay put and behave. It’s for your own good.” And she found she wanted nothing more than to run off and get into mischief. He was the armed, muscle-bound nursemaid every child struggled to get away from. How did Thengel manage it? 

Morwen contemplated this point as the three of them returned to the house. Gundor made his escape by looking for Guthere. Her thoughts were arrested when she met familiar faces approaching from the road. She stopped to wait for them and Cenhelm hovered near her elbow. What sort of threat did he think these families posed? She swallowed a sigh. 

Ioneth and her mother were entering the yard with a grave old man, Ioneth’s ailing father. And they were not alone either. The miller’s wife and Midhel had also come with Nanneth leaning on her arm. A large hamper hung from Midhel’s arm, brimming with bread, eggs, and garden stuff. 

“We heard you’d come back finally,” the miller’s wife said without preamble. “And with the prince. We passed him on the road.” 

“He’s not leaving, is he?” Midhel asked. 

“Not today,” Morwen answered. “He’s on an errand for me.” 

The miller’s wife exchanged a glance with Ioneth’s mother that Morwen understood perfectly. Well, so what? 

Nanneth garbled a few sentences in her ear. 

“Yes, Beldir is inside,” Morwen answered. “The others are beginning to look better too.”

“Some good food will help with that,” Midhel said. Then she gestured for Cenhelm to step her way. “You there, help me carry this inside.” 

Morwen nodded at Cenhelm, who grudgingly took the basket but didn’t leave her side. 

“It’s all right, Cenhelm. I’ll be in shortly.”

“I have orders, Lady Morwen.” 

“I know.” 

He pressed his lips together in a thin, hard line. Morwen felt badly for Cenhelm. She thought she understood his feelings. His sense of duty dictated that he accompany Thengel; and yet he’d been relegated to minding her, a woman to whom he owed no allegiance. His lord had ordered it, however, and he meant to obey. And now she had dismissed him. 

“Come along, handsome. You don’t want to listen to valley gossip, do you?” Cenhelm glowered at Midhel, but the woman ignored him and helped Nanneth into the house. After a moment of hesitation, Cenhelm stalked behind them, cheerful as a rain cloud. 

Morwen watched them disappear into the house before her visitors demanded her attention again. 

“Lady Morwen, you must know that Ioneth has been under foot for over a week now,” her mother complained. “What am I supposed to do with her if this continues? Mind you, I don’t want her in the path of those Arnach men and their sticky fingers, but I’ve got enough to manage on my own now that I’ve got her father’s health to mind too.” 

The miller’s wife gave her neighbor a sour look. “Imagine trying to keep a handle on seven girls. Really, Lady Morwen, I had hoped you’d get a handle on this situation soon than this. I’m at my wit’s end.” 

Morwen stared at the miller’s wife in surprise. Perhaps the woman should have thought of that before she had seven girls! 

“Six. One managed to get away from you, remember?” Ioneth’s mother twitted. 

Morwen held up her finger to silence any further retorts. “Listen, Prince Thengel and I are doing what we can to clear Bar-en-Ferin so that everyone can come back to work. It’s going to take time, unless you have better ideas.” 

“Hareth suggested we poison them,” Ioneth piped up. 

The mothers hushed her. Some of the men had begun to enter the yard and their little grouping had drawn their interest. Morwen saw her neighbors’ unease. They didn’t want to provoke the men. 

“It’s tempting,” Morwen muttered. “But no. Prince Thengel and I have other ideas.” 

Ioneth shrugged. “Poison would be faster.” 

“You’re not going to marry the prince and abandon us to the likes of Lord Halmir?” The miller’s wife asked suspiciously. 

Morwen colored. “I’m not abandoning the valley,” she said carefully. “Whatever else might happen.” 

“Because that’s what some folks are saying,” Ioneth’s mother chimed in. 

“Who’s saying that?” Morwen snapped. 

The miller’s wife shrugged. “Folks.” 

“Folks? There’s only one person nosy enough for that,” Midhel said with a snort as she joined them again without her basket and Cenhelm close on her elbow.

Morwen recalled the goat man’s hearty congratulations the evening before. “Teitherion is spreading tales, isn’t he?” 

“Well….” 

“He didn’t say that Lady Morwen would abandon us,” Ioneth countered, “he said Prince Thengel was going to carry her off on a white horse.” She sighed at whatever ridiculous, romantic imagery Teitherion had invoked. 

Cenhelm surprised her by snorting. She wished he had stayed inside! 

“It’s a gray horse,” she said, recalling the day they had compared their knowledge of horses and apples while she showed off her then beautiful trees. “And he isn’t carrying me off anywhere.” She wouldn’t give Lord Turgon the satisfaction, for one. 

“White, gray, whatever,” the miller’s wife continued as she pointed a rough finger at Morwen. “Just so long as you don’t leave us with this mess. It’s your responsibility. What are we supposed to do in the meantime? My husband’s ready to drown the girls in the Erui.” 

Morwen eyed her neighbor’s finger with disgust. “Let him, then,” she snapped. “That’s your business. I have my hands full at the moment without your flighty daughters adding to it, thank you.”

“Lady Morwen, really—” Ioneth’s mother began. 

“And until you have something constructive to add to this situation, I suggest you stay home,” Morwen finished. 

Ioneth giggled and received a pinch in the arm from her mother. 

“Well,” the miller’s wife huffed. “That’s hardly the reply I’d expect from Lord Randir’s daughter.” 

“You forget yourself,” Midhel hooted. “This is Hirwen’s daughter too.” She didn’t have any children of her own and had never been very sympathetic of other women who had.

The two families wasted little time in the yard after that. When they were out of sight, Morwen allowed herself to cringe. 

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper.” 

Midhel smirked. “The miller’s wife needs a good set down every once in a while, else she fancies herself a great lady too. Your mother knew that.” She snorted. “As if her children were your responsibility. The cheek.” 

Hirwen had never talked to Morwen about the other women in the valley. But then she had been a girl still when her mother died unexpectedly and it probably hadn’t seemed necessary. 

“I do need her children, though,” Morwen said thoughtfully. “That’s the problem.” She regarded her companions. “Are you leaving too?”

Midhel shook her head. “I came out to see if you needed help managing those two biddies, but you had them in hand. I’m washing wool today, but Nanneth needs an elbow to hold onto. She’s slowing down with this wet spring getting into her joints and it’s too much for the grandkids to be any use to her.” 

“Will the two of you be all right on your own later?” Morwen asked, staring off in the direction of their departed neighbors before glancing at Cenhelm. His expression dared her to suggest offering his services to the two old women. She wasn’t in the mood for mutiny, so she held her tongue. 

“Oh yes.” Midhel reached into her long pockets and pulled out a wool comb strapped in a leather holster her husband had made for her. She unlaced the holster to reveal tines longer than Morwen’s fingers and terribly sharp. “They’ll leave us alone if they don’t want a tickle with this. Anyway, let’s go back inside. It’s getting crowded in the yard, if you haven’t noticed.”

Morwen had noticed and she wondered where Wynflaed had gone off to. Not that the shieldmaiden needed her protection. She simply preferred to keep her so called guest in sight. 

But another task awaited Morwen, so Wynflaed would have to fend for herself. Perhaps Cenhelm would go in search of her? Without a doubt, the two understood one another better than Morwen ever could. In the meantime, Beldir would have to be told about Hundor’s choice of lodgings, a conversation Morwen didn’t relish.   
…

Morwen nearly fell over to escape the long reach of Beldir’s crutches as the overseer shunted around her. “Wait! Where are you going?” Morwen asked. 

His gaunt face had twisted with righteous anger as he limped toward the door. “To clear that squatter from my home.”

“You’re in no condition with that leg, you old fool,” Gildis called after him. 

Beldir’s face turned red. “It’s my hut and I’ll drag myself there if I have to!” 

Morwen caught up to him easily and pressed her hand against his thin chest, stopping him. “Beldir, think. What do you expect to do to Hundor? He’ll dance around you on those crutches. Be patient.” 

Gundor, whose head had been stuck on the other side of the doors like a sentinel’s, watching the road for Prince Thengel’s return, ducked back inside. 

“Lady Morwen, I can see the prince on the road.” 

Morwen twisted around. “So soon?” 

“Eh.” Gundor stuck his head back out. “No, wait, it’s somebody else. I thought the horse looked the same.” 

Who would be coming to her on horseback? Morwen joined Gundor at the door, pushing it open further to see around the boy. She could hear Beldir stumping along behind her. Beyond the men in the yard, she saw a rider on a pale horse wearing an cheap black surcoat that looked rusty where the sun had faded it the worst. 

“That may be a courier,” she said. “It doesn’t look like the one from Arnach though. Wait, who’s that riding behind him?”

“Maybe it’s two couriers?” Gundor offered. “It must be from Minas Tirith. We’ve seen a few of them while you were gone. They never send the same rider.” 

Without waiting for Cenhelm, Morwen stepped out beyond the threshold and into the crowd to meet the newcomers. Wynflaed surprised her by materializing at her elbow. 

“Where have you been?” Morwen whispered. 

“Climbing trees.” 

“What?” 

Wynflaed shrugged. “It’s interesting what a body can overhear when they’re out of sight. I want to warn you, though…” 

The first rider gave them a curious look as he rode up, interrupting Wynflaed. 

“Lord Halmir?” he said. 

“I’ll get him,” one of the Arnach men answered as he ran off in the direction of the tents. 

At length the second rider approached. The two horsemen regarded one another, then the second turned to Morwen as the most likely candidate for his query, if dress where an indicator. 

“Lord Halmir?” he said. 

“Coming,” Morwen growled. 

“Here, in fact.” 

Morwen turned and recoiled as her cousin rounded the corner of the house. The courier had reached into his bag and held out a letter, which Halmir received. Then he paid the man triple what he should have, making sure Morwen noticed, and then the horse and rider turned in the yard and departed. 

Halmir wasted no time in breaking the seal and scanning the document. He crowed. “Just as I thought! Morwen—” 

The second rider dismounted and cleared his throat. “Lord Halmir.” 

Halmir glanced up from his letter, angry to be interrupted. “What do you want?” 

The rider bowed stiffly. “Pardon me, my lord,” he said with a nasally voice. “I represent Lord Daeron.” He handed Halmir another letter. 

Again Halmir didn’t wait to open it. He beamed after reading the first paragraph. “Ah, my friend Daeron has been very obliging. Always comes through for me.” Halmir chuckled. “So you met him in Minas Tirith? Good fellow. Very well dressed. I’m afraid he’s found you rather disappointing, however. Do you wish to know what he writes?” 

Morwen’s blood ran cold at the thought of those two communicating about her. “No, thank you.” 

“I would keep reading, my lord,” the man intoned. 

Halmir glared at the man. “Why? Do you know what it says?” 

“I am familiar with the contents, my lord.” 

Halmir harrumphed and continued to read. Morwen watched his eyes travel from line to line. Then his color changed, startling her when he suddenly ripped the page in two. He surprised her again by rounding on her. 

“What is this drivel?” he demanded, flapping the torn pages at her as if she had written them. “What lies were you spreading to Daeron?” 

Cenhelm stepped between them. “If you please, my lord, stand back—” 

“What are you talking about?” she said around Cenhelm, speaking with a calm she didn’t feel. 

“You told Daeron that the project was off.” 

“It is off!” she retorted. 

Halmir wadded up the paper in his hand, then dropped it on the ground to grind it beneath his boot. “It is not. It is not! And now you’ve set him threatening me about money.” 

What a child he was, she thought, in mind at least. That gave her courage. “Wake up, Halmir. You never should have embarked on this scheme in the first place.” She raised her voice so that the whole yard had to overhear. “Look at these men. You’ve wasted weeks of their family’s time. They haven’t slept in real beds in days and you’ve eaten everything we had. How long do you expect to keep this up before they’ve had enough of hunger and wet tents and dreading their return to angry households?” 

A murmur rippled through the crowd. She felt Cenhelm’s hand on her elbow again. 

“Careful,” he warned with a whisper. 

“Food can be purchased, Morwen,” Halmir answered, managing to scowl at her, at Cenhelm, and at the rider at the same time. “You forget how well funded I am. And if you hadn’t interrupted, these men would have cleared the land for their own barracks in another week or two. If they are hungry and uncomfortable it’s your fault!” 

The murmur rose and she felt black looks directed toward her. How could they believe such utter rubbish? 

“Sir, if you would allow me,” the rider began. 

“And just who are you?” Halmir snapped.

The rider bowed again very slightly all the while with a mildly disgusted frown. “My name is Axantur. I am but one of Lord Daeron’s advisors appointed to look into his interests here.” 

“Leave that to me,” Halmir bit off. “I don’t care how many advisors he has, he’ll know what he needs to know when I’m good and ready and not before.” 

The man sniffed. “With respect, my lord, he is an investor and thereby has a right to know the progress of the project he has funded as per the agreement you signed in the presence of Lord Daeron and my colleagues when you accepted his money. As you have read in his letter, he has grown uneasy by your long silence. Now, if you please, I will make my inspection and draft a report. Lord Daeron is a busy man and so I must return to Minas Tirith without delay. If you bar me, there will be consequences.” 

“This is your fault,” Halmir growled at Morwen. “You’ve set that man breathing down my neck with your lies.” 

“You did that yourself.” Then she turned to Axantur as another idea came to her then. “Come with me, sir. I’ll show you exactly what Lord Halmir has been up to and I have a few things to say to Lord Daeron about his complicity in the destruction of this property.”

The advisor blinked at her. “Complicity?” 

“Did Lord Daeron see a deed before that so called agreement was signed?”

Axantur reached for his bag as if missing the safe feel of documents in his hands. “I’m afraid I did not oversee the negotiations directly.” He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, but who are you?” 

Morwen straightened her shoulders. “I am Lady Morwen of Bar-en-Ferin,” she said boldly. “My family has held this property by the will of the Lord of Lossarnach for over twenty years.”

The advisor’s eyes roved between Halmir and Morwen as he digested this information. 

“You had better inform Lord Daeron that a lawsuit might be coming his way soon for his complicity in the destruction of valuable property, which I will be happy to detail for you,” Morwen bluffed. “And for aiding trespassers—”

“Shut up, Morwen,” Halmir barked. 

But Axantur ignored him. “I see.” 

“She’s lying! Morwen doesn’t own this property and she knows very well she can’t sue—” 

Morwen rounded on him, nearly pushing Cenhelm out of her way. “But Ferneth can,” she snapped. Halmir looked like he might strike her, but Morwen held her ground. “Can’t she?” she murmured slowly, emphasizing each word. 

Up close, Morwen perceived for the first time how bloodshot her cousin’s eyes had become. And she thought his curls looked more shapeless and less glossy. He could crow about his money and bully his men, but even he would have to crumble at some point if she pushed him long enough. 

Beldir pegged his way over the gravel to Morwen’s side. “Gundor and I will take this man up to the orchard. The boy saw most of what happened first hand.” Then he leaned in to whisper, “Take care, Morwen. Don’t overreach yourself.” 

But Morwen was in the mood for kicking hornets’ nests. She frowned at Halmir, who hadn’t quite rallied. “Aren’t you going to follow?” she asked as Beldir led Axantur away. “You should be there as your plan unravels.” 

“Lady Morwen,” Cenhelm groused. He had overheard Beldir’s advice. 

But to her surprise, Halmir swallowed back his anger. He rolled his shoulders and seemed to shrug off what had just occurred. 

“A minor setback,” he said. “You and I both know that was a bluff.” 

“Was it?” Morwen retorted. She felt some doubt in her mind. They couldn’t know for a fact that Ferneth hadn’t forfeited to Halmir and his ability to rally seemed to confirm her doubt. And yet, they could both bluff, couldn’t they? 

“I’ll set things straight with Daeron another time,” he said with a wave of his hand. “You’ve merely annoyed me again and wasted that man’s time. That’s all. I have enough of Daeron’s money in hand to proceed and the authority to do it. As for you, Morwen, I plan to teach you some caution.” 

Morwen tossed her hair. To whatever spirit had possessed her to provoke Halmir she gave it full rein. “You’ve run out of time for your plans for me, Halmir. I have the favor of the future king of the Mark and he will never allow you to lay another finger on me again.” 

Let Halmir interpret that how he liked, but within Morwen a stillness grew and spread through her limbs. That hadn’t been a bluff. As the words passed her lips, she felt their truth as solidly as if Thengel’s shield stood planted in the ground between her and Halmir. 

Halmir stepped toward her as if he meant to try then and there to strangle her, but then a poisonous light appeared in his eyes. “Yes, favor. That’s one way to put it.” 

Wynflaed grabbed her arm, startling her as she pulled her back. “Here comes Thengel. Listen, Hundor’s spreading some lie about catching Thengel in your bedroom, no doubt to give his brother more material for abuse.”

A movement in the crowd drew Morwen’s eyes to Hundor and a she felt a cramp in her belly. “Wynflaed, he was in my bedroom,” she whispered. 

Wynflaed stared at Morwen in surprise. Then she swore under her breath. 

“Talking, Wynflaed.” 

Wynflaed snorted and stepped aside as her brother rode up. 

Halmir had frozen as Thengel and Thurstan dismounted. But then he snapped behind his back and the largest of his thugs came forward, enveloping her cousin in a protective shroud of borrowed muscle. 

Guthere stepped up to Rochagar to receive the reins from his master. He and Thurstan led the horses away to groom, leaving Thengel to deal with the confrontation in the yard. In her preoccupation with Daeron’s man and her cousin, she hadn’t noticed the yard filling up with all of Halmir’s men and her own folk. Cenhelm and Guthere had both been behind her the whole time. Midhel, Nanneth, Gildis and Hareth watched from the doorway. 

“What’s going on here?” Thengel asked her, lifting his chin in the direction of the horse and rider disappearing into the distance with Beldir and Gundor. “Who’s that?” 

Morwen led him a little ways from the group. “Lord Daeron’s advisor just arrived. I think he’s threatening to pull his money out of the project and that’s made Halmir angry,” she explained. Then she asked, “Did Gladhon make it all right?” 

Thengel nodded. “He’s on his way.”

“I thought you wanted to send Thurstan too?” 

“Cenhelm balked when I suggested it.” He glanced at the crowd. “That may be for the best from what I can see.” He frowned at her. “I thought I asked you to be careful, not go toe to toe with your cousin.” 

“Well.” Morwen licked her dry lips. “About that, I may have said some things to Halmir just now that may have been ill advised…or provoking, but— ” 

Thengel planted his hands on his hips. “Morwen, what did you say?” 

She cleared her throat. “Well…” 

Then Thengel scowled at something over her shoulder and pulled Morwen closer to his side. “What do you want?”

Morwen didn’t need to look to know that Halmir had come up behind her.   
….


	36. Hotspur

Morwen turned to face her cousin, surprised by how close he had suddenly come. Halmir seemed indifferent to the nearness of Thengel's sister and guard who were each poised to intercept him if necessary.

She backed away until she felt the solid line of Thengel's body behind her. His arm held her waist and she felt somehow less exposed, though the relief she found in his presence turned out to be short-lived.

The commotion in the yard had attracted more of Halmir's men, as if smelling trouble the way hounds scented blood. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Guthere and Thurstan appear from the paddock. They each looked grim as they surveyed the tableau before them.

Halmir's dark eyes shifted between Morwen and Thengel with a mix of contempt and curiosity. "I should give Hundor more credit for his reconnaissance skills," he drawled. "Even I did not quite credit that you were ensconced with Prince Thengel in your bedroom this morning and yet there seems to be no end to your familiarity with one another."

As if to make his meaning clear, he eyed Thengel's arm. Morwen winced, then found Hundor in the crowd. He smirked at her, then shrugged.

"Well, and so this is your choice, Morwen?" Halmir held up his other hand as she tried to reply. "Hold. Before you go on, hear this. I have not been idle since you left for Minas Tirith, in more ways than one. We'll call it something of an investigation." He held up the first letter, which had arrived with the courier. "I have some unfortunate news about your fortunate favorite."

Morwen glared at her cousin, feeling an itch in her fingers to snatch away the offending letter, whatever it contained. Dread flowed through her veins like ice water. Just what had he found and how much trouble would he cause Thengel?

"Whatever it is, I'm not in the least curious," she lied.

Halmir ignored her, glancing down at the paper in his hand. "I suppose an exiled prince is still a prince in name, if not in, ahem, honor." He smirked at them. "Do you know what drove Prince Thengel into exile?"

Halmir's expression morphed into a condescending frown when she refused to answer. "How could you, Morwen, secluded as you are in Imloth Melui? Although now you seem to be using that seclusion to your advantage," he intoned. "Did he tell you about his past in those intimate moments you've spent with him?"

Morwen felt herself blushing. It really was too much to expect that Hundor would behave himself for once! "I don't know what you mean, Halmir," she answered with difficulty. Her heart raced in her chest and she found it hard to concentrate. "There's nothing…"

"Did he?" Halmir pressed.

Morwen was forced to look at Thengel over her shoulder. He stood proudly but his eyes seemed veiled as he listened to Halmir.

"You haven't told her what you threatened to do in the king's hall?" Halmir gloated, shifting his attention to Thengel. "Shall I?"

"Halmir, don't," Morwen barked, having now enough of an idea about the contents of the letter from what little Thengel had told her of his past. "It's none of my business or yours."

Halmir turned the letter around for her to see the scrawl of ink. The letters blended together into meaningless nothings to her eyes. "He threatened to put the king's head on a pike." He grinned as a murmur instantly rose among the crowd.

Morwen cursed him for his knack for sensational announcements. She hated to see Halmir humiliating Thengel, even if the prince had meant to direct all the bad behavior toward himself.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. "You're only making a fool of yourself."

Thengel's arm tightened around her waist. "Morwen," she heard him murmur in her ear.

"Is that not true?" Halmir demanded, looking past her again to Thengel.

"No," Thengel replied evenly.

She felt herself relax against him. Of course the accusation was ridiculous. Thengel would never do something so inhuman.

Halmir waved the paper in the air. "Well, this letter says otherwise. Am I to believe that the Steward's chamberlain is an unreliable witness? A man present on the day the Steward received Marshal Oswin's testimony and application for Prince Thengel's asylum?"

Slowly, Thengel turned Morwen to face him, gently gripping her shoulders. The yard had grown so quiet as everyone strained to listen that she could hear the gravel crunching under her boots. For a moment her eyes locked eyes with Wynflaed's and she startled when the shieldmaiden turned away. Paling, Morwen met Thengel's gaze. His eyes were clear but hard; the veil had fallen from his eyes and they pierced her.

"You don't have to answer him," she whispered.

"No, Morwen, let's be clear," Thengel told her. "I threatened to hang Fengel's head from the stockade encircling Edoras where everyone could see it as they rode by until the crows picked it apart," he said coldly, though Morwen was shocked to detect a certain note of relish too as they regarded one another. "I never considered a pike."

"A technicality," she heard Halmir hoot.

Thengel shot a jaundiced glare over her shoulder, but if it hit the mark Halmir remained insensible to it. The prince's admission served only to puff him up further.

"I want you to see this man in full, Morwen," Halmir continued. "What sort of person threatens to kill his king? His own father, no less?"

Halmir had meant for the letter to strike a cord in Morwen and it worked. She stepped away from Thengel, his arm falling away as if she had scalded him with her dismay. She couldn't imagine saying such a thing to the Steward - it would've been impossible to threaten her own father.

Thengel had threatened king and father.

She felt bewildered. When Thengel had described the event that had led to his exile on their walk to Anorian's well, he had understated the situation. He had disrespected the king. Threat of regicide and disrespect did not belong in the same category, to her mind. Morwen had been led to feel that his father had overreacted, had wronged him in sending him away. Yet it had been a mercy of sorts.

Or King Fengel's reputation failed to live up to reality, a part of her rallied. Nobody could behave like that without provocation. Could they? Thengel's father sounded like a torment, even from the little Wynflaed mentioned about him. When Morwen caught Thengel's eyes hoping to find answers, he somehow managed to look defiant and ashamed at the same time.

"Do you still wish to choose him now that you know what he is?" Halmir asked her. "Or is he content merely to use you as his slut before he runs back to Rohan?"

Morwen's skin burned inside and out as if Halmir had blasted her with fire. And just what had Halmir planned for her? The base hypocrisy left her stunned.

"Mind your tongue," Thengel growled, "or I'll have you and your brother for slandering a lady's name."

"You've overstayed your welcome, horse lord," Halmir shot back, unconcerned. "Go back to Minas Tirith."

Morwen bristled, turning back to face her cousin even as he crowed in triumph. "Don't forget yourself, Halmir," she told him, "Prince Thengel is my guest and you have no right to send him anywhere."

Halmir scoffed. "This man is a traitor to his country, you little fool. Is he worth ruining yourself for? How hard was it for him to override your principles? Not very difficult, I wager."

Morwen hazarded a sideways glance at Thengel. As she watched him watching Halmir, she felt surprised by the sudden fire in his expression, where he had been cold before. Although Halmir's letter had temporarily derailed him, he was rallying anew. That gave her courage and reminded her of another truth.

Morwen surprised both men by slipping her hand into Thengel's, holding it fast.

"Halmir, remember that Thengel is the Steward's friend and Captain Ecthelion's lieutenant, whatever his past might be. They wouldn't associate with him if he was the malefactor you're trying to paint him," she reminded her cousin.

Halmir stared at her in surprise. "Are you deaf? He admitted—"

"This is my house, Halmir. You're the one overstepping yourself."

"You are not mistress of this house, stubborn, foolish girl," Halmir seethed. Even his curls seemed to shake with anger at Morwen's open defiance. "Remember, I'm regent!"

"Do you have that right?" Thengel challenged. He spoke soft and slow so Halmir had to strain to hear him. "You're being careless with semantics." He held her hand against his chest, the better to give Halmir an easy view of it. "My history is public knowledge, easily discoverable," Thengel continued carelessly, "but I think you dislike that you've lost the key to your fortune." He smiled unpleasantly. "You know, I could get used to this valley. Morwen and I will be very happy here."

"You can't stay here forever," Halmir said through clenched teeth. "Have you considered that, Morwen?"

Thengel shrugged. "King Fengel might live for another twenty or thirty years, give or take. I suggest you find another wood for your ambition. Ithilien perhaps? Turgon thought you might be interested when I mentioned your predicament to him."

Halmir shook with poorly concealed rage, sputtering, "Ithilien!"

It was like watching two ships collide in the harbor, Morwen thought. She couldn't look away while Thengel slowly wheedled and goaded Halmir into a frothing rage.

"You may not be the man that Hardang was," Thengel continued. Halmir flinched at the mention of his brother's name. "But you'll find Ecthelion a fair captain. He accepts people for what they are; in your case, orc bait."

Halmir rushed Thengel who dropped Morwen's hand and spun her behind him with dizzying speed before he received a backhanded blow to the jaw. The smack of flesh mingled with Morwen's gasp, echoing through the yard. The prince's head barely moved on impact, though his cheek blazed red. Halmir raised his hand to strike again, but Thengel caught his arm in a grip that shocked the weaker man.

Thengel's lips curled into a grin of victory. Halmir seemed to shrink beneath the reckless fury behind the expression, confused by the swift reversal that had occurred just as he felt the surest of victory.

"I am Thengel Thrice Renowned," the prince said proudly, as if the shame he had exhibited at first had been but little more than a show. Here was a man who knew himself, the good and the bad, and had risen to meet it with an embrace. "I've bested uglier vermin than you, Halmir Hatholson and now you owe me satisfaction."

"Satisfaction?" Halmir parroted. His face drooped in surprise.

To the side, Cenhelm made a strangled sound before being hushed by Wynflaed.

"Do you retract what you've said about Lady Morwen?" Thengel challenged.

"Never," Halmir spat. "You made her a slut, not me."

Thengel twisted Halmir's arm. "You'll answer for that lie and all the mischief you've done to Lady Morwen and the orchard. Choose your second."

"M-my what?" Halmir bent at the knees as the pain in his arm increased. "Augh!"

Morwen stared at Thengel, stunned as if witnessing a falcon in the dive. She tugged on his sleeve. "Please, Thengel…"

Thengel shrugged her off, his eyes never leaving Halmir's face. "Your second, Halmir, in a trial by combat. According to the ancient customs of Gondor, you owe me satisfaction after dishonoring me with a blow and to pay for your unflattering words and trespassing on Lady Morwen's property," Thengel stated. "Wynflaed will stand in as my squire."

"Hurrah for me." Wynflaed gave Halmir a grin that had turned doughtier men's bowels to water.

Halmir's eyes raked the yard full of his supporters, perhaps looking for the first one to stand in his defense. His followers, Morwen's household, the prince's men, had all witnessed Halmir strike the prince without physical provocation and he received quarter from no one.

"A duel….t-to the death?" Halmir stammered.

Thengel glowered at Halmir as if he were a malodorous dog. "Customarily, as you have dishonored my royal person, yes."

"What!" Morwen cried.

Thengel glanced at her sideways then focused on Halmir again. "But for the lady's sake and in memory of similar mercy, we will fight till one opponent yields. Name your second."

"Someone's got to clean up the ribbons when Thengel's done with you," Wynflaed quipped.

Halmir's eyes nearly rolled into his head as if he might faint at any moment. He had turned pale and only seemed to stand upright because Thengel had him by the arm still. Morwen felt oddly sick to see him so greatly reduced from the puffed up cockerel to this quivering mass. How quickly he dissolved into panic once Thengel turned the table on him!

"H-Hundor," he finally managed.

Halmir's younger brother did not look happy to be chosen as second. He shrugged before stalking deeper into the sea of bodies, abandoning his brother.

"Fine. These two will name the time and place," said Thengel. "In the meantime, I suggest you find a sword."

Halmir's eyes bugged from his head. "Sword! I won't. I'll only agree to a hand fight."

Thengel dropped Halmir's arm as if it belonged to an orc. "You aren't in a position to negotiate, lordling. You've recklessly accused Lady Morwen and myself, which you will answer for in this trial. Find a sword unless you'd rather forfeit now and withdraw from Imloth Melui?"

"Never!" Halmir tripped away from Thengel, seeking safety on the far side of the yard where his men were tightly clustered. His bravado rallied in proportion to the distance between him and his rival. "You can't accuse me without a judge and jury."

"The sword will serve for both."

"And if you win, what then?" Halmir shouted.

"Then you leave Bar-en-Ferin immediately, apologize for slander, drop your suit for Morwen's hand — oh, and pay a fine for the destruction you wrought here."

"And you get her and the orchard then, is that it?"

Thengel crossed his arms. "That's the idea."

"But—"

"And if I win?" Halmir asked over Morwen interjection.

Thengel gave him a slanted smile that reminded Morwen of Wynflaed. "It'll be a cold July in Harad."

An animal sound tore from Halmir's throat as he hastily exited the yard for the tents. His followers didn't linger long, most of them wandering under the trees to discuss the prospect of future entertainment between Lady Morwen's rivals.

…

"Oh, is that Teitherion coming up the road? I just recalled I have something particular to say to him. Step along, Nanneth. We're taking the long way home today. Goodbye, Lady Morwen!"

Morwen registered Midhel's words with a pang as the two old women crossed the empty yard toward the road. The whole valley would know about the story of the prince's challenge in full before suppertime. She saw Gildis and Hareth duck back into the house, leaving Morwen alone with the Rohirrim. An eerie silence filled the yard.

She flinched in surprise as another grin spread over Thengel's face even while he rubbed his bruised cheek.

"That went well," he congratulated himself as if insensible to the mood around him. He clapped her on the shoulder. "Didn't I say he'd do something stupid before long?"

"Don't tell me you're pleased," she gasped. By his sudden good mood, Morwen half suspected he had planned for the afternoon to pass in just this manner! But that was nonsense. Surely.

"Of course," he answered. "He surprised me with that letter, I admit, but it did make things simpler in the end. Béma bless your cousin's short fuse."

"If you say so," she answered in a brittle tone, "but what put such an idea into your head?"

"You know," he said happily, "Halmir gave me the idea."

Morwen looked askance. "He did?" That didn't sound like Halmir at all!

"After I helped him to a drink from your rain barrel he threatened to call me out." Thengel laughed, a grim bark. "As if he had a right. But Gondor's honor codes have turned out to be quite useful."

"Thengel," she breathed, as suspicion clouded her mind. "Do you mean to say you always intended to challenge Halmir?"

A shadow fell between them as Wynflaed approached. "I've seen that tactic used more than once," she interrupted, "but never by you, Thengel."

A current seemed to pass between the brother and sister, the cause of which Morwen could not guess.

"Tactic?" Morwen asked.

Wynflaed glanced at her. "Setting a trap and then baiting Halmir to fall into it. It's a family gift." She pretended to pick off a piece of dry skin from around her fingernail. "As far as coordinated efforts go, you both did well."

Coordinated effort? Morwen hadn't meant for this to happen! She'd only wanted to stand up to Halmir for once.

"It's useful, isn't it?" Wynflaed continued as she gave Thengel a pointed look. "Especially for getting rid of competition."

"Wynflaed, hush," Thengel warned.

The shieldmaiden shrugged. "For better or for worse, we are our father's children."

Thengel looked stunned by the comparison. "This is not the same thing," he answered.

"Suit yourself." Wynflaed shrugged again. "I half hope he finishes you off so I can have a crack at him."

Morwen listened to this exchange, feeling her forehead begin to throb. Is that how Fengel had managed to rid himself of his son's presence? By verbally whipping his son into a frenzy in front of witnesses until Thengel compromised himsefl? Morwen felt sick, imagining the scenario she had just witness but between a king and Thengel at Gundor's age.

She brushed past the brother and sister to go into the house, feeling horrified by her own participation in the things to come and only just beginning to grasp the enormity of it. The long room stood empty. Vaguely, Morwen wondered where Gildis had spirited away Beleg and the rest.

Thengel caught up with her just inside the door. "Are you alright? You don't seem pleased."

She whirled round on him. "Pleased! Should I be?"

Thengel closed the door behind him and looked at her with an odd expression. "Well, yes."

Morwen paced deeper into the room, stopping at the hearth, seeking whatever residual comfort remained from her parents' chairs. What would they say if they knew what had transpired in their home? And what would her father think about his favorite nephew facing off with the Prince of Rohan? And she had helped bring about the duel! In ignorance, admittedly, but still. She wanted justice and for Halmir to answer for what he had done to her home, but did she want it with the possibility of blood? Thengel's blood?

She heard Thengel's footfalls following and she turned to face him.

"Your cheek is still red where he hit you," she pointed out. "I'm sorry, Thengel, but I'm not pleased that we've incited Halmir to violence and then helped you invited more of it."

"Morwen, don't you see that with this course we can settle the question of Halmir's encroachment in one morning?" he reasoned. "We may not even need Ferneth now."

"That's all very convenient," she retorted, stung by another point. "And so you thought you'd just throw me in there too, to be settled between the pair of you in one morning?"

Thengel stilled, resting his hand on the back of her mother's chair. "What do you mean?"

Morwen gestured to the horn that had rematerialized over the fireplace since she'd last thrown it at him. "Your disguise. Did I not just hear myself parceled out to the winner along with the property?"

Thengel crossed his arms. "Morwen, he isn't going to win."

Morwen fought the urge to throw the horn at him again as he completely missed the point. "Somebody's going to win," she nearly growled. "And someone's going to believe that this gift was in earnest. Then what?"

"We talked about this last night." He shrugged. "Does it matter what people believe?"

"Yes! Midhel is out there right now spreading the word. Someone's going to hold us to it." She inhaled sharply, thinking of word traveling as far as Minas Tirith. "Thengel, what were you thinking?"

"I'm sorry," he retorted, voice brittle. "When you asked me to help, you weren't specific."

"Because I never thought you'd choose to do something as reckless as challenge Halmir to a duel!" she cried.

"Reckless! Young woman—"

"Yes, reckless and dangerous." Morwen said, holding her ground. But then she pressed her hands to her cheeks. "I shouldn't have asked you to come back here. You could get killed or worse!"

"What's worse than killed?"

Morwen ignored him. "Oh stars. This is not what I had in mind at all!" she said to herself.

He scowled as he watched her pace the length of the deerskin rug. "You overestimate your cousin's chances, Morwen."

"And what if you're underestimating him?"

"No fear," he sneered. "Besides, what happens to me is my business."

"It's going to be mine too if you get killed acting as my champion. Just what will I owe Rohan then?"

The doors opened. Morwen reached for a poker in case Halmir appeared to rush Thengel and start the duel early, though which man she intended to hit with it, she couldn't clearly decide. Perhaps both! But Cenhelm appeared instead, Wynflaed following close behind. Morwen replaced the poker rather than provoke Thengel's guards. She could imagine they were as uneasy about this development as she was.

Cenhelm barely made it inside the door before he unstrapped the sheathed sword from his waist and handed it to Thengel. His men followed and looked startled by their captain's actions.

"What is this?" Thengel asked.

Cenhelm bowed his head. "Prince Thengel, it is clear that I have failed in my duty as your protector. I'm surrendering the sword Marshal Oswin imparted to me."

"Cenhelm, put your sword away," Thengel ordered contemptuously, thrusting it back at his guard.

"My one task was to keep you safe," Cenhelm answered gravely. "I can't seem to guarantee that even in the peaceful land of Lossarnach when you rush headlong into every danger." He glanced quickly at Morwen and she felt his blame. "It is clear that I am incompetent and unworthy of the charge placed on me."

Thengel looked stunned. "Don't be a fool," he groused after a pause. "I won't accept your resignation."

Wynflaed took Cenhelm's sword away from Thengel and threaded her arm through the unfortunate guard's when it looked like he would argue his case. "Come along, Cenhelm, I want to speak to you."

Thurstan and Guthere watched the whole exchange with inscrutable expressions. Thurstan chose to follow Cenhelm and Wynflaed out, but Guthere slipped into the kitchen.

"Poor Cenhelm," she breathed.

Morwen received an irritated look from Thengel. "Wynflaed will talk him down."

"Yes, she's good at that," Morwen muttered. "I wish she would talk you down instead."

"Why?" he said with an irritated expression. "This is just the boon we needed."

Morwen's mind reeled. Had he lost his grasp of basic Westron? Surely he didn't mean what he'd just said. Surely. And yet, she detected actual traces of satisfaction in the curl of his lip and the keenness in his eyes.

"Thengel, thank you for all your help. I think you mean well, but this is a bad situation." Morwen reached for his arm, bunching his sleeve in her fingers. "Please, can't you call it off?"

"Call it off?" He seemed to finally register the anxiety creasing her eyes and mouth. "Morwen, what's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with me?" she cried. "You're going to fight my cousin! Did you expect me to leap for joy?"

"Perhaps," he retorted. "I certainly did not expect you to take his part."

She gaped at him for a long moment. Bloodlust in the heat of anger was one thing, but to contemplate it in the cold light of day? She shivered. Blood wouldn't erase what had happened. It would only compound it.

"I'm not taking his part," she finally answered, "but what makes you think that I would approve of this?"

"He has to answer for his behavior," Thengel told her sharply. "King's rules."

"Which king?"

"It doesn't matter which," he groused. "Can't you see it's a matter of honor, Morwen?"

"Honor!" She wanted to shake him. Of course he would be thinking of the letter first and foremost. "He can't blacken your name to me. You have nothing to prove. I know you're a good man, no matter what happened in your youth."

Thengel looked incredulous. "Morwen, I'm not talking about what happened in Edoras. I mean the language Halmir uses against you, every ugly word since we arrived here. He's not the first person to bring up my father and he won't be the last. I can take it. But he has no respect for you. He'd use you the way he's using this orchard. It's time someone taught him some regard."

Morwen tightened her grip on his sleeves, making him look at her. "Listen, Thengel, my value has never depended on Halmir's opinion and I don't think it's a lesson he'll learn from a sword."

Thengel's brows dipped low of his eyes like storm clouds. "No? Well I am not going to stand by while he rakes your name through the mud, whether he's teachable or not," he said tersely, not giving ground. "What about the orchard then? Look at the marks on your arm. You think he should get away with that too? Don't you see that this way he'll have to answer for his force on you without judge and jury?"

She pressed her lips together in a firm line, unable to trust herself to answer.

Thengel's eyes widened in disbelief when she didn't jump to take his part. "You can't be serious." He backed away from her, but since she still held his sleeves he only managed to tow her with him. "Just two days ago you wanted to run him through with trowel!"

"Yes, and sensibly you stopped me." She jabbed him in the chest with her finger. "What is it you told me about no one dying? Suppose you kill him or he kills you?"

"It's not a fight to the death, Morwen," he reminded her, jerking his arms away. "All he has to do is yield."

"You can't guarantee that!" She took a deep breath. "What if you're injured? He's not a farmhand and neither are you. What would be the fallout? I agree with Cenhelm. It's foolish."

"Morwen, look at the harm he's done, that he means to do?"

"Fighting won't bring the trees back. Please, Thengel. Not everything can be solved with blows."

His hands rested on his hips as he frowned at her. "Quite a lot can, actually."

She huffed and bowed her head. So it wasn't the best argument to give a warrior of his stature, she acknowledged. Yet she believed that Thengel was being especially obstinate and she simply couldn't understand why.

"What did you tell me about leaving Halmir to the Steward's justice?" she asked.

"I am the Steward's justice," he told her coolly.

Morwen barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. "I'm not going to be responsible for the injury or death of the crown Prince of Rohan. Please, Thengel, we can think of something other than a brawl until Ferneth comes."

His expression twisted with disgust. "It's not a brawl, it's a duel. They're completely different."

Morwen failed to appreciate how they were different. Where reason failed, how were fists or swords an improvement? "Can't you see this is taking the Thunor charade a bit far?"

Thengel expression closed to her like shutters over a window. "I can't believe we're arguing about this," he groused. "Halmir doesn't deserve your concern. He's a worm."

"I'm not concerned about Halmir, but I am concerned about you. It's reckless, especially for a man in your position and it's more than I have a right to ask of you."

"I'm not standing by when he has so much to answer for," he swore.

"A few slights aren't worth fighting over."

"Slights?" he repeated as his eyes blazed. "Morwen, Halmir treats you like you're nothing."

"Most of Halmir's accusations weren't true! Why are you so eager to defend my name?"

He surprised her by cupped her face in his hands. Without thinking, she leaned in. "Because I—"

"Excuse me, Lady Morwen?"

Neither of them had heard the housekeeper enter the hall. Thengel's hands dropped away from Morwen like stones. She had to crane her neck around Thengel's shoulders to see in the direction of the kitchen door. She never felt so unhappy to see Gildis in her life. When she glanced back at Thengel, he had already drawn back into himself. Whatever reason he might have given, the opportunity to hear it had passed.

Morwen hugged her arms to her chest, feeling shaken and angry. "What is it?" she snapped.

Gildis sniffed, affronted by Morwen's tone. "It's Teitherion. He claims he's brought a betrothal gift."

"We don't want it," Morwen groaned. "Send him away, Gildis. Whatever you have to do."

"It isn't for you. It's for Hareth." Gildis glanced covertly at Prince Thengel. "And Guthere. I thought you should know since it's a pair of goats and the horse barn's full. Where do you want them?"

What! When had that happened?

"Morwen, just what's been going on here since I left?" Thengel growled.

That was the last straw. Morwen raised her hands between them like a buffer. "Don't you dare blame me!"

Then she fled the hall.


	37. Satisfaction

Springs storms rolled in, putting a halt to any plans for a contest between Prince Thengel and Halmir. But with the rain, the plantation dogs started to come back home. They all looked waterlogged and covered in brambles, but remarkably well fed. Morwen suspected the valley folk had something to do with the latter condition. She felt oddly reassured by their return as if things were inevitably traveling back toward normalcy again.

But it was a false assurance.

She never saw Thengel in the house after their argument. He avoided her the next day and she made it easy for him. He always managed to slip out before her and come in after dark. When Morwen cornered Wynflaed coming in one night, the shieldmaiden claimed they were having sparing practice to pass the time.

On the second day, Morwen spent much of her time with Axantur at the hall table, describing her experience with Halmir over the past weeks. By dinner time, her head ached from repeating everything - sometimes three or four times - to him as he took notes and made amendments.

She had to squelch moments of guilt whenever Axantur started signing or mumbling over a particular memory. Daeron and Halmir put themselves in this position, not she. The testimony might prove useful, especially now that Lord Daeron's young advisor had witnessed the situation himself. After all, she hadn't been the only one cheated by her cousin, and as foolish as Lord Daeron had been to trust his friend, she thought he deserved a little footing to recoup his losses, if possible. Or perhaps she only wanted him to understand how very little she had been involved in spending his money.

Wynflaed returned to the house dripping wet, covered head to toe in mud, and grinning hugely. Morwen turned away from her conversation to discover the reason for this exuberance. In Wynflaed, she found it less than assuring.

"What happened to you?" Morwen asked.

Wynflaed glanced down at the bloody patches on her knees where her riding breeches were torn and caked with mud. She looked natural, Morwen thought, which made her wonder what their mother must be like.

Wynflaed sniffed and then wiped her nose on her sleeve. "The ground's too mucky with all this rain. I slipped in the mud and Thengel got me. Cenhelm suggested we use the barn from now on." She shrugged. "I don't know if I should feel embarrassed or not. Thengel's footing's better than mine, but I bet I could beat him on horseback in a trice." Morwen shuddered to hear her talk so casually about fighting. "But we'll hold the duel as soon as the ground dries out some. I'd prefer the top of the orchard where the sward is. That Hundor scab doesn't seem to care much either way. When will the rain stop?"

"Soon, I expect." Morwen frowned. "I had hoped rather that with all this rain you'd talk him out of fighting."

Wynflaed gave her such a look of such scorn that Morwen blushed. "Are you daft? He can't back out now without losing face."

Even Axantur looked askance and Morwen had to accept that events would go as they would.

…

The rain brought other disruptions, but this time for Halmir. Gundor called Morwen to the hall door on the third day of storms to witness a peculiar event. Something of a civil war had erupted among the Arnach men between those who were fed up with being wet and hungry and those who were determined to stick it out until they were certain that they wouldn't profit from Halmir's success. A handful had started throwing punches at one another and rolling in the mud. Morwen and Gundor had stuck their heads out between the doors until Beldir sensibly, if not gruffly, reminded them it was safer to watch from a window and bar the doors.

Some of the men managed to extricate themselves from the mob and limp off toward the greenway, followed by slurs and accusations and threats. Morwen felt her heart lift at the sight, even if she did feel a little afraid of the violence. If his men couldn't hold out, perhaps Halmir himself would acknowledge that his plans were unraveling.

"If the rain keeps, maybe they'll all go," she hoped. "That must have been a dozen."

"That won't stop Prince Thengel from poking holes in Halmir's guts," Beldir reminded her.

Her heart dropped back around her ankles. "Or the other way around," she answered.

…

On the fourth day since Gladhon rode to Arnach, the storms passed. When Wynflaed brought her the good news that the next day had been fixed upon for the duel, Morwen decided Thengel would have to speak to her.

She found him alone in the horse barn. Dried mud covered Thengel from his feet up to his shins. Clumps of horse hair had dried to the mud and Morwen couldn't help contrasting this prince to her cousin Adrahil, who always seemed dressed for state and left something as menial as grooming to, well, the groom. The gossiping groom. Fleetingly, she wondered if Adrahil had recovered from his angst over the Steward's interference. She still owed him an apology, but she planned to wait till the fatal day so she could write all her news at once.

Rochagar stood tethered to a post while Thengel brushed him. The stallion angled his neck as he studied the newcomer in the aisle with dark, liquid eyes. Absentmindedly Thengel reached out to rub his gray muzzle. She leaned against a stall door to watch Thengel pick hair from the comb, then continue his work with wide strokes along the stallion's flank. Rochagar's head began to droop as the grooming relaxed him again.

As Morwen considered how best to break the silence, Thengel did it for her.

"When were you going to tell me about Guthere and your cook?"

So he still felt angry with her, Morwen sighed inwardly. Well, if he was, she didn't believe for a moment that Guthere's surprise made the top of his reasons.

"Eventually," she answered. "Oswin knows."

Thengel shot her a black look over his shoulder. "You talked to Oswin about my men? Do you hold council meetings with him too?"

Morwen felt stung by the accusation in his voice. She took a deep breath to calm herself before replying. Having a rational conversation with Thengel felt a lot harder when he started out already swinging. And this wasn't her chosen topic, either.

"I talked to him about one man and only once. If you recall, there's a lot more going on in the valley than a little romance."

"Hm!"

"Oswin asked me about Guthere's progress, so I took the opportunity to find out if Hareth's going to have her heart broken."

"What?" he snapped.

"Thengel," she groused, "they care for one another. Can't you see she'll be disappointed if Guthere has to return to Rohan after his service to you? Better to tell her straight out that nothing can come of it."

"Something has come of it," he said, cutting the air with his hand. "With no small amount of thanks to your bedeviled painter."

"Teitherion isn't my painter and it's hardly his fault." Morwen tucked her hair behind her ear. "Honestly, I don't see how Hareth and Guthere could help liking one another, either, even if Guthere knew he'd have to return home."

"What does it matter if he has to return to Rohan? If she loves him, what's stopping her from going with?"

"Well…" Morwen broke off and bit her lip. "I guess I hadn't thought of that. It wouldn't be very convenient to me."

Thengel shook his head, then snorted.

"Do you think she would like it there?"

"Sure. Who wouldn't?" he muttered. Then, curious despite himself, he asked, "What did Oswin say?"

Morwen shrugged. "He said he'd never heard of such a thing happening before, that's all. They might start a precedent."

Thengel snorted again. He chose a new brush and started over on Rochagar's back. But the stallion sidled and tugged against the tie, picking up on his master's mood. Thengel had to give up with the brush to calm the horse before he could resume again. Morwen could see his own temper straining against whatever will he used to keep it in check, not terribly grateful to Rochagar for revealing just how ruffled he felt.

It gave Morwen courage, however, even if she had to keep speaking to his back.

"When I left home, I could see they enjoyed each other's company," she explained, "but I didn't know they'd make up their minds so quickly. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. To be fair, you haven't always been forthcoming with me either, Thunor."

There. Morwen finally touched on the real reason for seeking him out. She could tell he knew it by the way his shoulders bunched.

"You paid me out for that one already."

"Not quite," she muttered. "I missed by half an inch."

"You didn't miss. I ducked."

True. Morwen had good aim. The local squirrels could attest to it. She hadn't expected him to notice or admit it. Something in the way he said it pulled at her heart, as if he wanted to go on being irritated with her, but couldn't allow his irritation to keep him from giving her full due, even for something as trifling as that.

But she couldn't explain his prolonged anger. Morwen wished he would turn around and speak to her the way he had always done, kindly and with a little humor. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to feel connected to him again. It felt wrong for them to be at odds with one another. She knew he still felt angry that she disagreed with him about the duel. How could he expect her to be happy that he'd put himself in danger for a problem that should never have involved him in the first place? She could relent, tell him that she thought he'd chosen right, but it wouldn't be the truth. And if they weren't honest with one another, their whole friendship would unravel. She hoped he wouldn't expect her to blindly agree with him all the time. That would invite a lot of disappointment on his side!

Morwen sensed another layer, a reason she couldn't understand for his displeasure. She thought it might have to do with the disguise, something she wasn't understanding.

"Thengel, will you answer one question before you meet Halmir tomorrow?"

He sighed. "What is it?"

Morwen tried to ignore his tone and keep her own voice even. "You aren't fighting him just because of this disguise you've given yourself, are you?"

He didn't turn around to answer her and she felt the back of her eyes begin to burn as the silence prolonged like a shadow across the space between them.

"No," he answered eventually. "I'm done with disguises."

Her heart thumped in her chest. "What does that mean?"

The brush stilled. "You said one question."

"Thengel," she murmured.

He did turn around then, keeping one hand anchored to Rochagar's haunch. The expression on his face was softer, but not what she would call open. "It means I'm buying you time like you asked me to until Ferneth arrives, using the method we discussed, but that the reasons for satisfaction are real."

"Those reasons are…?"

He turned his back on her again. "My own."

Morwen stared daggers into the back of his head. This was hardly the time to be enigmatic! "I wish I had something to throw at you, just now," she said, thinking of the horn. Irritating, stiff-necked egotist, maybe it would just knock some sense into him.

"That would certainly give Halmir an advantage," he answered as he resumed his work.

"Ugh." Morwen slipped away from the stable shortly after that, her blood pounding in her ears.

…

Morwen left the empty house on the morning of the duel with Axantur by her side, a feeling of grim determination hanging over her. The property surrounding the house had an abandoned feel with all the household and the Arnach men already in the orchard. She wondered how her home would feel after this morning.

Axantur took a deep breath of fresh air. "It's a beautiful morning for a…" Morwen glanced at him and he stumbled. "A bit of outdoor sport. Quite warm and clear," he remarked as they walked under the beeches.

Yes, the sun shone with oblivious cheer as it climbed over the eastern ridge. Morwen squinted at it briefly through the trees before dropping her blotched gaze back to the earth.

"If you say so," she replied.

"Granted, I don't start the day like this normally. The fashion in Minas Tirith is to fight a man with words and the law, not with swords. Save those for the Haradrim, eh?"

"I couldn't say."

"Got a lot of birds in these parts, haven't you."

Why did he insist on talking? For a lord's advisor he seemed to rattle on more than necessary, particularly when she didn't wish to speak. And yet, the birds did seem bent on full-throated singing, rejoicing in the breeze from the south carrying the promise of the approaching summer. It reminded her of a song she used to hear her mother singing in the orchard.

When they reached the hilltop, she saw that the valley folk had filled the sward on one side while Halmir's supporters filled the other. She lingered on the edge between the dark tree stumps and the grass, feeling uncertain of her place. The uniqueness of her position at the duel had impressed itself on everyone there, particularly in the minds of those who had received first hand intelligence from Midhel and Nanneth just days before. She felt their curiosity and the temptation to keep walking felt strong. She imagined climbing right out the orchard door to the other side, right up to Anorian's well and then she'd jump.

Well, perhaps she wouldn't jump. She didn't like pain any more than she liked embarrassment. Morwen decided to think of today as a mere extension of Lossemeren. She would take her place as the lady of the house and remember to keep her eyes fixed at a point over people's heads, so they wouldn't know she wasn't looking at them. If she didn't feel confident, she would pretend to feel confident.

She hoped.

"What should I do now?" she whispered to Axantur.

"Well, mainly you're just here to look pretty and wistful and remind everybody that you're the injured party…" Axantur missed the black look she shot him. Wistful! "…but it wouldn't hurt for you to wish your champion luck before we proceed."

"It might," Morwen muttered.

She hadn't positively ruled out knocking Thengel over the head and dragging him to safety till the whole thing blew over. Wynflaed would let her, too. Maybe. If the shieldmaiden didn't realize first that it would stop the duel. Cenhelm presented the only snag as she'd probably have to take him out first to get to Thengel. Morwen doubted she'd succeed at the same thing twice.

Axantur walked on to meet with the two contenders and she followed to the place where a set of stones marked the bounds. On one end, Thengel stood very still and straight, flanked by Cenhelm and Wynflaed, who were speaking to him. Only his eyes moved, watching Halmir pace on the other end of the field.

Halmir's face looked red and blotchy as if he had already fought a duel and had to return again for this one. He stopped once or twice to bark something at a knot of his men grouped on the outer side of the ring. When he saw Morwen and Axantur approaching, he finally stilled and the blood drained from his face. For a reason she couldn't fathom, his nerves only increased hers. She didn't feel afraid for him, but she felt afraid. Morwen walked faster, the sooner to pass Halmir by, leaving Axantur behind to speak with her cousin alone.

When she approached Thengel, he eyed her warily, as if he had read her earlier thoughts and suspected her of sudden and blunt-forced interference. Cenhelm and Wynflaed fell silent. She stood before them and felt at a loss for words. What did one say? Good morning? Have a nice fight?

Wynflaed spoke first. "There's been a change," she murmured. "The scab ran off in the night. Halmir has to choose a new second, only nobody seems too keen."

"Hundor's gone?" Morwen gasped. "When did you find this out?"

Wynflaed shrugged. "A little before you arrived. Halmir's men have been looking for him, to no purpose. The money's gone too."

Daeron's money!

"Coincidence?" Morwen asked after a stunned pause. Perhaps the money had disappeared earlier than they realized with the first deserters. The fact that Halmir hadn't been robbed before this point amazed her, since he insisted on bragging about the sum. Would Hundor stoop so low as to desert his brother and rob him to boot?

"I doubt it."

Wynflaed's news made her feel suddenly light. If Hundor ran off and took the money, she knew they wouldn't see him again for quite some time. Without the money, Halmir could do little more to her or to the orchard. What friends would be so generous to him a second time and with the testimony she had given to Axantur?

"Then Halmir's already lost," she breathed.

"Not exactly," Wynflaed said grimly. "The challenge has been issued and they have to follow through. It simply means he has nothing to lose."

"Or something to gain if he wins," Cenhelm supplied grimly, "which is justification."

Morwen felt dizzy as her relief drained away. If Wynflaed and Cenhelm were correct, wouldn't that make Halmir more desperate...and therefore, more dangerous?

"No fear," Thengel murmured, surprising her.

Morwen looked him in the eyes and wished he would feel fear. Too much confidence could be as dangerous as too little. Oh, Wynflaed could go over each opponent's statistics and tell her point for point why Thengel made the superior specimen here, but until someone yielded she would never feel secure of victory. She wished he wouldn't take it for granted.

Axantur approached their circle and bowed to the prince. As the most neutral of the guests at Bar-en-Ferin and the only other man with any standing in the valley, he had been appointed to serve as a sort of official witness or conduit between the seconds. Morwen didn't know all the intricacies involved in the spectacle even after Wynflaed tried to explain it to her, but that's how she understood his role. She wondered how neutral he would be once he learned his lord's investment had scarpered, wasted in the pocket of a thief.

"Lady Morwen, I think we had better get started. Halmir has a replacement second, so we can proceed. If you'd just step over the boundary please."

Impulsively, Morwen reached for Thengel's arm. "Good luck."

A titter ran through the crowd when she touched him and Morwen stalked out of the square with a blush on her cheeks. She found her place among the tree stumps, away from the her neighbors. Wynflaed and Halmir's second met in the middle of the ring after consulting separately with Axantur about the quality of the grounds.

Cenhelm joined her, though his guards had mingled in with the valley folk and her household on the other side of the sward. She felt grateful for his presence now that he wasn't playing her nursemaid. And it surprised her. After his conversation with Wynflaed the night Thengel initiated the duel, he had also seemed to avoid her and she thought he blamed her for the prince's challenge.

"What are they discussing?" she asked, as the conversation lengthened.

"They're quibbling over the terms of satisfaction." When she gave him a blank look, he continued. "According to Prince Thengel's challenge, the duel ends when one of the opponents yields. Halmir's second is arguing that the duel should end at first blood, but not a mortal wound."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he probably knows his chance of succeeding are better if he can scratch the prince early in the fight than it will be holding out against him until one of them has to give up."

"But couldn't Thengel do the same? Scratch him early, I mean."

Cenhelm shrugged. "Yes."

"So why wouldn't Thengel agree to that and finish it quickly with fewer risks?"

"Because I imagine he wants the pleasure of issuing as many scratches and bruises as he can, since he believes you won't tolerate him spitting Lord Halmir in a trice."

Morwen blinked. "Well…" she didn't know what to say to that. Giving Thengel the chance to spit Halmir would also open the opportunity to Halmir to do the same.

"Call me a coward, if you like," she replied, "but I wouldn't want the prince to have his way if his way would put him in danger - more danger, that is."

Cenhelm surprised her by saying, "I completely comprehend you, my lady." Their eyes met and he looked solemn. "I wish we had avoided this contest altogether. You and I are the ones who would answer for it if Halmir succeeded."

"I know," she said. "But that's not the reason I wish it wasn't happening."

Cenhelm scratched his cheek through his beard. "No. I expect it isn't."

As Axantur quizzed the seconds, Morwen's attention wandered. She noticed Teitherion sketching nearby, his hand moving at a dizzying speed. She left Cenhelm to approach Teitherion. Glancing over his shoulder, she saw the rough outlines of two combatants facing one another across the paper. "Teitherion…"

"Confound it!" He jumped, scratching a line across the paper that cut Thengel's likeness in two. Morwen felt her stomach clench. "Oh, it's you, Lady Morwen."

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He pulled out a brown, gummy lump from his bag and began rolling it across the paper. The lines disappeared, leaving only a rough score where his pencil had slipped.

"Capturing history, of course."

"History?" She gave him an odd look.

"Certainly. You see, this is not my first painting of your noble lover's—"

"Teitherion!"

"…archives. He'll have to show you some time. And I thought you might like a memento to remember the day your champion thrashed your persecutor. Something to show the grandchildren, you know."

Grandchildren!

"Now see here, Teitherion—"

Axantur gestured for both Thengel and Halmir to step nearer to the center. The crowd fell silent as he dismissed the seconds, speaking briefly to the fighters, though they were not permitted to speak to one another. Then he measure their swords, the one Thengel brought from Minas Tirith and another blade Halmir had had to borrow from one of the Arnach men. Thengel removed the accompanying sheath and gave it to Cenhelm along with his shirt before accepting his blade back. Halmir chose to keep his shirt, but had been forced to give up a small knife found on his belt.

Halmir's men murmured among themselves, taking their measures and bidding on who the victor would be. Of the opponents, Halmir had the advantage in height, though Thengel boasted the wider frame of his ancestors and more muscle memory for this kind of exercise. Her cousin cut the more dashing figure, even with his curls flattened by days of wet camping and the nervous tick in his shoulders. Morwen thought his eyes roved over the crowd a little too obsessively, as if he too still sought Hundor…or an easy escape route.

Morwen felt as if a sickness had entered her bones. The feeling exuded upward and outward from deep within. It twisted her stomach.

She pitied Halmir.

He had harmed her and deserved nothing but her hate. Yet, horrible as he had been, despite what he deserved, he had to face a superior opponent, abandoned and betrayed by his own brother. Hardang's death had reduced his brothers to this and she felt sorry for it.

Briefly her eyes met Halmir's as if he could feel her pity, and a wave of venomous hate struck her. Halmir turned his back and said something cutting to Axantur. She couldn't quite make it out, but the tone gave her hints.

At last, Axantur stepped outside the stone boundary, followed by Wynflaed, Cenhelm, and Halmir's man. Cenhelm joined her again after he'd played his brief role in the spectacle, the prince's shirt draped over his arm like a towel and the sheath lying at his feet.

A thought struck her. "Cenhelm, why doesn't Thengel wear his leather armor?"

"Because Lord Halmir doesn't have any and it would give Prince Thengel an unfair advantage."

So that was the sort of thing Wynflaed and Hundor had had to agree on, she guessed, before he ran off.

The duel opened with a salute at Thengel's prompting. He led the attack as the opponent requiring satisfaction. Halmir warded off the first thrust. They circled, guarded, drew lines in the dew-drenched grass as their feet fairly danced into lunges. Morwen couldn't allow herself to blink while they delivered a series of quick strokes. They disengaged, circled, exchanged again.

Wynflaed stepped away from the lines with a cold, analytical expression on her face as she studied the contest. Morwen didn't doubt the shieldmaiden would have a list of criticism prepared for her brother when the fight ended. And she would deliver it to him, regardless of the outcome.

Morwen soon lost track of the advances, counter attacks, disengagements. Her ears ached with the snick-and-sizzle of steel on steel. Halmir wasn't terrible, but it became clear his knowledge of swordsmanship was mostly theoretical. He rarely initiated an attack, and offered counter strokes like a man ticking off a checklist. But he moved lightly on his feet and he could dodge most of Thengel's strokes. This allowed Halmir to avoid being driven backward if Thengel leaned heavily on his guard, which would force him to give ground or break his stance.

She swallowed back a gasp when Halmir's blade locked with Thengel's cross-guard at the same time the prince's foot skidded on the dew. Thengel stumbled; Halmir sliced at him, but the prince managed to angle his wrist in time to avert the majority of the thrust. Still, the blade found a mark as it slid up the cross-guard.

Murmurs erupted from the valley folk, and a few groans, as a line cut across Thengel's arm near the ball of his shoulder. First blood. Halmir vibrated with growing confidence. He grinned for the first time that morning.

Morwen pressed her hand to her mouth as bile rose in her throat when the cut began to overflow. With the other hand, she had reached out and found Cenhelm's arm. He patted her hand sympathetically.

Wynflaed leaned around Cenhelm and said, "You always give a lesser opponent first blood. It gives them confidence, which makes the fight more entertaining."

Morwen stared at her, certain Wynflaed made that up for her benefit. She did not feel particularly grateful either.

Wynflaed shrugged. "I didn't want you to think Thengel had performed poorly. You look nervous."

"I'm not nervous," Morwen countered, but she didn't let go of Cenhelm's arm.

Morwen focused on the fight again. As their footing improved with the drying dew, the speed of the exchanges increased. Halmir grew bolder, leading an attack rather than waiting for Thengel to come to him. But always he barely followed through with a stroke before dancing away.

It felt like a life age before they disengaged once more, each catching his breath. Prince Thengel's hair stuck to the side of his face and a wide line of sweat had darkened the back of Halmir's shirt. Thengel glanced briefly at his cut shoulder. One of Halmir's thrusts had wrenched his arm and caused the blood to flow freely downward and drip from his elbow. Halmir tried to use the few seconds to his advantage. Thengel had to give up a few paces of ground, expending more energy, but he eventually warded Halmir off.

"Nature intended you for the sword, I think," Thengel mused as they circled one another again. "You're light on your feet, possess adequate arm length and force. No, you would be wasted in Ithilien with its archers and axemen. You're for Pelargir — eh — and pirates."

Halmir growled and led the attack. They said nothing else as each exchange demanded their breath as well as their thought. Thengel managed to get past Halmir's cross-guard and tap his wrist with the flat of his blade. The move surprised Halmir and his sword arced through the air, landing to Thengel's left.

The crowd erupted with a collective, "Ooh!"

"Is it over?" Morwen whispered to Cenhelm.

The guard pursed his lips, then shook his head. The prince had stepped back, lowering his sword as he allowed Halmir a moment to dive for the fallen weapon.

Halmir sliced wildly at the air between himself and the prince once he got his sword into his hands again, trusting that the prince would take advantage of the dropped weapon. But Thengel gave him a jaundiced frown, as if Halmir's distrust cast a poor reflection on the prince's honor. There were rules of combat, but Halmir had never been a man to worry about rules and couldn't countenance that anyone else would either. Thengel seemed to smell it like a foul stench.

They resumed circling one another, hazarding a thrust, being deflected, advancing and fading. Neither seemed willing to dive in after the other, Morwen thought. She half-hoped they would decide to call a truce out of boredom. Only belatedly did she realize that what she considered a conservative attack had been deliberate.

Gradually, Thengel had lulled Halmir into widening his guard. The crowd gasped when Thengel suddenly drove his point home. Barely a scratch, but blood bloomed on Halmir's tunic just below his ribcage before Halmir could ward off Thengel's weapon.

Halmir glanced down insensibly, blinking at the blood as if it were only a wine spill. Taking advantage of his opponent's distraction, Thengel lunged again, forcing Halmir to scramble to block the blade, all the while giving ground. Though Halmir didn't fall, Thengel had shaken him.

The blood had a formative effect on Thengel too. The prince transfigured from a man to a lion, fueling his limbs with wrath where he had been circumspect before. The hotspur drove the blade against Halmir's like a blacksmith using the other man as an anvil, not giving his opponent so much as a breath to regain his position, until at last Thengel had driven him beyond the artificial boundary. Halmir stumbled over the back of a tree stump, landing with a painful wrench to his knee. The sword landed on the grass beside him. He reached for it, swinging it blindly at Thengel, who quickly deflected the blow and kicked Halmir in the stomach.

Halmir fell on his back and scuttled backward, but not before Thengel's blade found a home, the flat edge snugged in the crook between Halmir's throat and shoulder. Halmir's fingers scrabbled blindly for the hilt of his sword. His fingertips brushed the metal hilt just before Thengel's boot crushed Halmir's wrist into the dirt. Morwen felt it in her own wrist where the bruises had faded yellow.

Halmir's chest heaved for want of breath. Unable to retrieve his weapon in defense, his arms lay nerveless at his side.

When her peripheral vision began to cloud, Morwen realized she'd held her breath. She exhaled, wanting to ask Cenhelm if now the fight had ended, but she couldn't speak.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed that Thurstan and Guthere had left their places among the valley folk and had wended their way to her side of the field. The better to intercede?

"Mend your ways, worm," Thengel said at last. "If rumor reaches me that you've used this hand to harm another woman, I'll remove it for you. Do you yield?"

Halmir's eyes roved around the sward where his men stood, his thoughts shown plainly on his face. He could call the others down on Thengel, one man against nearly three score, give or take. Would Thengel survive with those odds waiting for him?

Yes.

Because even Morwen knew that Halmir couldn't call down his men to avenge him against the crown prince of Rohan. Even if he survived a fight against this Fengling, Halmir wouldn't survive the political fallout. Halmir trembled under the pressure of Thengel's sword against his throat and the pressure on his wrist. Something caught Thengel's eye and the tip of the sword traced a thin, fading scar. Wynflaed's keepsake.

"What's this?" Thengel queried as he applied pressure.

"Yield! I yield," Halmir squeaked before Thengel could split his throat like sausage casing.

Thengel regarded this opponent with grave repugnance, drawing out the moment of decision as Halmir squirmed in the dirt. Axantur stepped forward in case Thengel decided to rewrite the rules of engagement. It would be as simple matter to pin this worm to the ground, after all.

"Prince Thengel, he yielded. Stand down."

At last, Thengel raised his sword on inch above Halmir's shoulder. Close enough so that the imp would remember to fear it. Then he lifted his boot so that Halmir could extricate his limb.

"Go home, lordling, to whatever punishment Lady Ferneth deems necessary for one guilty of destruction, trespassing, and defamation. Take Hardang's men with you," Thengel said for all to hear. "They have better uses. A wiser lord than you would know that."

Halmir scooted away quickly, distancing himself from the victor. He spit once. "You aren't Lord of Loss—ugh." He stopped snarling to pick his misplaced hair out of his mouth. "Lossarnach!"

Thengel's lips curled back, showing teeth. It was an unnerving sight.

Halmir bristled beneath the prince's mockery, causing him to forget that he was ass first in the grass and that Thengel still had his sword in hand.

"If Morwen takes you, she's a fool. You can't stay in this valley forever," he shouted. "One day I'll take what I came for!"

Prudence was not one of Halmir's strong suits. But then, neither was it the prince's. Thengel gave him a cavalier nod.

"I accept your challenge, little man," he said with leaden irony, saluting Halmir with his sword. "But you may find that what you came for is a taste of cold steel."

Guthere snorted. "There's a double meaning in that," he muttered to Thurstan, though loudly enough for all to hear. "Steelsheen…get it?"

Thurstan rolled his eyes.

…

"It's over, Lady Morwen."

Morwen could hardly believe it. Cenhelm glanced down at his arm, which she still grasped.

"Are you well, my lady?" he murmured discretely amid the men who had packed in closely during the fight.

Morwen nodded slowly, as if in a dream. "Go to him, please. His arm is hurt, remember?" She couldn't seem to find any use for her own legs and thought it better to send his guard.

Cenhelm did as she asked. He needed to return the sheath and the tunic. Wynflaed went with him, already aching to broadcasting her list of criticisms.

No one dared approach Halmir. He picked himself up off the ground as soon as Thengel turned his back to retrieve his tunic, which the prince wadded up and pressed against his shoulder. Without the immediate threat of steel, Halmir grew reckless again.

"Prince Thengel!" he began.

Thengel glanced over. "What, are you still here?" he growled. "I told you to go home."

"You've had your satisfaction," Halmir spat. "But you cannot remove me from Bar-en-Ferin. As Forlong's regent—"

"Forlong's regent is here, Halmir," said a voice from the trees.

Morwen turned on her heels as she recognized the voice. Catching her movement, Thengel did the same. Their eyes met briefly and she nodded at the unspoken question. The Lady of Lossarnach had arrived.

The crowd parted around Ferneth. Halmir spun on his heels toward the voice with a look of madness in his eyes as Ferneth, dressed in deep mourning, sailed toward him over the grass like a black swan. She carried a bundle in her arms, and though she looked pale and careworn, she held herself proudly and her eyes cast a wide net over the company. Gladhon followed behind her. He lifted his hand in greeting when he spotted his comrades.

"Ferneth," Halmir sputtered. "What are you doing here?"

"Dismantling your ambition," she replied with something like relish. "Behold, my army, Halmir. It is small, but you'll find it's furious — not unlike me at the moment."

The orchard echoed with the tramp of many feet. At least a score of women were making their way toward the sward, some as young as Morwen who were clutching babies to their breasts or else leading small children with them, others much older, helping one another hobble over the stumps. As they drew closer, the women began to spot familiar faces among Halmir's men. A cacophony of voices rose from them.

"Is this where you've been all these weeks?"

"I've been at home with our children all by myself while you've been—"

"Camping!"

"Idle!"

"There's corn to sow! Who's going to do that?"

"You great bully! Shame on you."

"Your father would spin in his grave if he knew you left your old mother."

Morwen watched in wonder as Ferneth's army blended into Halmir's and proceeded to giving them all a browbeating. One old mother looked to be taking her displeasure out on her son with a laundry paddle. The false soldiers who Halmir had picked, alarmed to be met by their wives and mothers, sisters, and neighbors, began to fall away.

Ferneth raised her arm and the chatter instantly died. "Hold a moment, women of Arnach. There is still some business to attend to. Halmir, I'm very annoyed with you." She looked around the negative space where the apple trees had been carved out at Halmir's insistence and she swallowed hard. "So, the letters were true. This is how you chose to honor your aunt and uncle's memories."

She gestured to two men who had also accompanied her. "There he is, gentlemen. Bring him."

"The watch!" Halmir growled. "How dare you set them on me."

"As far as I can see you're a criminal, Halmir, lord or no. That's what the watch is for."

"You have no authority to arrest me. You're nothing but a woman!"

The guards hesitated.

Ferneth laughed, a cold cracking sound. "Which makes me more than a man and better fit to steward my son's interests, as the lady of this fief. You will find that I can back that up with Hardang's will, if you'd bothered to read past the point where he left you next to nothing." She added, "Now, stand down. You're making yourself ridiculous."

Halmir gave her such a look of contempt that unless she had a dragon's hide, it was a wonder she did not wither beneath it. But she brushed past him to cross the sward as if he were already forgotten. However, the bailiffs held back, uncertain if they should really lay their hands on one of the lords of Lossarnach.

"What is this to-do?" she asked of the assembly.

Midhel bowed. "A contest between Prince Thengel and Lord Halmir for the hand of Morwen, my lady."

Morwen cringed at the obvious omission of the less tantalizing reasons for the duel. Leave it to Midhel to try to spin it into something romantic! She suspected that Teitherion had Midhel in league.

"I see." Ferneth arched a brow, surveying the spectacle with increasing interest. "And I believe, if Halmir's ill temper is a clue, that Prince Thengel is the champion?"

She gestured for Morwen and Thengel to attend her. "Come here, both of you."

Thengel didn't quite look Morwen in the eye as they approached Ferneth from opposite directions.

"Present your champion to me," Ferneth said to her younger cousin. It was Morwen's turn to bear the weight of her kinswoman's scrutiny.

"Ferneth, this is Prince Thengel of Rohan," she said solemnly.

Thengel came forward, his sword still in one hand and his shirt in the other. He draped the latter over his shoulder, pressing his hand to his heart. He bowed his head. "Lady Ferneth."

"Prince Thengel, you have, according to the contest, won the hand of my kinswoman, I believe," she said grandly. "Take your rightful due."

"But—" Halmir shouted. He winced and clutched his seeping shoulder.

"Shut up, Halmir. Haven't you been arrested yet?" Ferneth retorted over her shoulder. Then she relaxed and gave a solemn smile to the prince. "Now, Prince Thengel, take Morwen's hand."

"I do take it," said Thengel, grasping Morwen's hand after he'd switched the sword to his left.

She looked at the appendage held out before her with a strange, detached feeling as if the limb belonged to someone else. The world seemed to narrow in on itself. Then she felt herself listing.

"Breathe, Steelsheen," Thengel murmured.

She took a deep breath and her vision widened again and she felt herself reviving. Events were unfolding far too quickly for her.

"Well?" Ferneth urged. "What do you say, Morwen?"

Morwen gave Ferneth a look of alarm. Was she supposed to give an acceptance speech? She couldn't think straight!

As Thengel stood there with her hand dwarfed in his, she thought he might kiss it again. But he surprised her by turning her palm upward and folding her fingers into a fist, closed and small like a stone.

"I do take it and now I give it back," Thengel said quietly. He let go. "Lady Ferneth, I claim nothing."

What had he said? Nothing?

Nothing!

Had he given her a gift or an insult?

Morwen's arm remained extended in the space between them as she stared at her fist, hardly knowing what to think or do. She cradled her hand against her chest.

He would never try to trap her, he had once promised. Morwen decided then that it must be a gift. In his convoluted way, he'd given her back everything.

And in that instant, her heart seemed to open to him.

Ferneth looked puzzled as well, but then she smiled. "Very well. Morwen shall govern herself and this household as she has done. Now, Morwen, what do you have to say to your champion?"

Morwen looked into his eyes, scrambling in her mind as a sudden bashfulness took over. Her thanks would sound pat in comparison to what he had done. It seemed so little to offer.

As the moment dragged on, he looked down and shook his head. "And thus Thunor defeated the suitors," he recited for only them to hear.

Thunor!

The swift sting of disappointment took Morwen's breath away as he flung his disguise in her face. Yes, he had used it well, restoring her home, her authority, her choices.

Except for one!

He'd closed that door with a swift kick. Foolish girl, she had fallen for the ruse just as it had come to an end. And the pain revealed just how her own position had shifted in the mere space of a moment.

She had fallen in love with the Prince of Rohan, just when he'd made it possible for her to go on without him.

But why had she felt the sting in her side rather than in her heart? As pain clouded her senses, she wondered, was that Ferneth's gasp or her own?

Morwen stumbled.


	38. Lady of Lossarnach

“Go, you idiot. I’ve got her.” 

Wynflaed’s voice sounded far away. Morwen felt herself being transferred from one set of arms to another and then eased to the grass. Her eyes were open but insensible as of one part of her brain told her something went wrong and the other warned her she would be fine as long as she did not look down. 

Wynflaed crouched beside where she lay half reclined against something. Then all view of the sward disappeared as she and Wynflaed were enclosed. Slowly Morwen recognized the enclosure for what it was, skirts. The uproar of the crowd pounded in her ears, muffled by the women standing around her. 

Morwen felt wet. In a concerted effort to ignore the intrusion in her side, her mind focused on one thing, the growing moisture of her skin and her clothes, like she had stepped from the bath and dressed with out drying off. She hated that feeling. She reached for her side as if to tear away the offending fabric, but a hand stopped her. 

“Don’t touch it,” Wynflaed said sternly. “Look at me, Morwen. Hold still. Right? This won’t hurt me a bit.” 

Morwen tried to figure out why that sounded wrong as she focused on Wynflaed’s glacial eyes. Then she felt terrible, pinching pain, like her skin was caught between two glass shards, pulling. Morwen bit her cheek, groaning as the pain went on and on. She tried to move away from it but something pinned her in place. Her arms, legs, and shoulders tensed till they were hard as bricks, anticipating more pain. Though it felt like an age, only a mere few seconds passed before Wynflaed cast something away that glinted briefly in the sun before landing out of sight. Nanneth appeared on Morwen’s other side and pressed something to her hip. 

A shout went up from the onlookers, punctuated here and there with gasps. 

"What happened?" she hissed through her teeth. 

“Hush. Take this.” Nanneth held a bottle to her lips. "Go on, open your mouth." 

Lukewarm liquid ran sluggishly down Morwen’s throat. When it hit her stomach, she began to feel sick. Her head lolled backward and she didn’t see Nanneth lift the rag away to inspect the wound. As a fog seemed to roll forward in Morwen’s brain, the orchard fell deadly silent. Even her blood seemed to stop flowing and her heart stop beating so she could hear the emptiness. 

Wynflaed leaned over her, still as a statue as she listened. At last she nodded at something Morwen couldn’t see. Then one by one the birds began to sing again. 

“Well, it’s over now anyway,” Wynflaed muttered. “That potion should be kicking in, shouldn’t it? Cenhelm, carry her down the hill. These people have had enough entertainment for one day.” 

Morwen felt her prop rising from the ground, bringing her up with him. Cenhelm had held her upright the entire time. 

“All right, my lady?” she heard him murmur. 

Morwen nodded against his shoulder. His beard scratched her forehead. She still felt pain, but from far away, as if someone had thrown it across the room. Then the world started to spin and she fell asleep. 

…

Ferneth ordered Halmir’s grave to be dug in the woods off the property he had destroyed. Thirsty for more spectacle, all the onlookers had gone to witness the burial. All but Thengel. Whether Ferneth realized it or not, her decision had given him the opportunity to slip away quietly. 

He returned to the house alone, stopping in his rooms long enough to strip out of his bloodied clothes, wash, and put on a fresh tunic and trousers. His hands didn’t seem to want to obey him and he dropped his tunic twice before he got it over his head. What was the matter with him? No one would question the justice of his actions. Even Turgon wouldn’t fault him once he learned the facts. And Thengel had killed before, many times in his career. Hadn’t he anticipated the moment when he could pay out Morwen’s cousin for the grief he had caused her? 

The house felt vacant when he left the study to seek her out. Most of the people were still out with Ferneth, except for the women who had accompanied Morwen. When he knocked on her door, it opened a crack, revealing a milky, gray eye. Then it snicked shut again, almost catching the tip of his nose. 

He sat down on the floor across from the door and waited. After a minute or two, Wynflaed slipped from the room and joined him in the passage, sliding down the wall to sit next to him. 

“Your ears must be burning.” 

“What?” 

“There’s a half a dozen women in that room right now all speculating about you and Morwen. That’s a nice show you gave them today. Half of them are disappointed and the other half are ever hopeful.” 

“At least someone enjoyed it,” he muttered. 

Wynflaed squinted at him. “You look tired.” 

He rested his head against the wood paneling. “I am tired.” Then he asked, “how is she?” 

“She’s asleep,” Wynflaed told him. “It’s only a scratch. More or less.” 

Thengel knew what Wynflaed considered a scratch. Most people gave more consideration to a paper cut than she gave to a nip from a sword. But he believed her. 

He half wished he’d known it at the time. Maybe he would have kept his head? But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d watched with blank surprise as she fell. Then he’d gone into a blind rage. He’d wanted to take a piece out of Halmir for such a long time, it hadn’t taken much for the old hotspur to turn up. 

“Was it as satisfying as you hoped?” Wynflaed asked. 

Thengel rubbed his eyes in slow circles, knowing what she meant. “No.” 

Wynflaed shook her head. “Huh. No satisfaction in revenge and you won’t even take what you came for. Poor you.” 

“Not now, Wyn.” 

The rays from the westering sun grew longer as they streamed in through the window at the end of the passage, catching on dust motes. Thengel watched them dancing. He wished the day would end. 

“I guess it’s for the best, letting Morwen off the hook.” 

Thengel glanced at her. “Guess? Don’t you know it?” 

She shrugged. “I figured you made up your mind to keep her, so your change of heart is a little surprising. That’s all.”

Keeping Morwen. Leave it to Wynflaed to make it sound like acquiring a stray dog. But then, she’d never taken Morwen seriously as a contender for the queenship of Rohan. 

“I can’t,” he answered. “After this, I don’t think she’ll look at me.” 

What would Morwen think of him now that he’d killed her kinsman, even one as filthy as Halmir? She's practically pleaded for him before the duel and people were odd about family, even members they didn't like. That, on top of giving up the plantation he’d just won for her? Not a chance. Idhren had warned him as much. 

“You weren’t wrong, Thengel. About dicing up Halmir, I mean." She muttered under her breath, "you’ve been wrong about plenty of other things.”

He looked at his sister in surprise. “Never thought I’d hear that from you.” 

“Halmir wanted blood. Whether it was Morwen’s or Ferneth’s, who can say? You couldn’t give him another chance to do harm, so no regrets.” 

“Let’s hope Morwen sees it that way.” 

“Give her some credit,” Wynflaed groused. “Besides, if you hadn’t done for Halmir, I would’ve.” 

He choked. “You?” 

“I told you I’d watch out for her.” 

“So why didn’t you when you had the chance?” 

Wynflaed tried to look modest. “Well, I wasn’t going to steal your moment.”

“Wynflaed, you have been stealing my moments ever since we were kids. Everything I ever did you had to do better.” 

“I can’t help it if I’m more talented than you and that Father likes me the best,” she sniffed. 

“False. Father likes Fritha best.” 

“Only because she never talks back to him,” Wynflaed growled. 

“And she married the husband he picked out for her, unlike you.” 

“Fritha is the worst.” 

Thengel grinned, but it quickly evaporated. “It’s Oswin’s attention we were really competing for. Wasn’t it?” 

“True. But it may come as a surprise to you, brother mine, that I occasionally exercise good judgment over competition.” 

Thengel studied her for a moment. “You were more worried about Morwen than revenge, that’s why you left Halmir to me,” he said. “You haven’t changed your mind about her have you?” 

Wynflaed shrugged. 

Then he saw light. “You’re the one who keeps putting the horn back on the mantelpiece.” 

"That’s right,” she answered with a defiant tilt of her head. 

“Why? You never supported the match.” 

“I wanted to see her throw it at you again.” 

“Wyn.” 

Wynflaed cut the air with her hand. “Look, it’s not about the match. Halmir had to know the House of Eorl was watching over this place. We may not have a lot to be proud of, but I'm not going to let some skimpy Gondorian run roughshod over our own." 

"Our own?" He looked at her for a long while until she grew annoyed. 

“What?” she snapped. 

He shrugged. “Nothing. Just trying to figure you out.”

“There’s nothing to see here, Thengel. Move along.” 

“Same here.” 

Wynflaed snorted. “Yeah, I know. That’s why you’re hunched on the floor in front of her room like an anxious hen. So, what will you do now?” 

Thengel shrugged as his fingers ghosted over an uneven blemish in the floorboard. “Search for Hundor. He has to answer for his deeds too.” 

“And you need to let off some steam.” 

He nodded. 

“Don’t you think you should rest first before you go raking the valley?” 

“Nope.” That’s the last thing he wanted, more time to think. 

“What happens after?” 

“After what?” 

Wynflaed rolled her eyes. “After you don’t find Hundor because he’s long gone but you need to delay so you can be sure Morwen’s all right even though I’ve told you she is?” 

Thengel got up and dusted himself off. “Then I return to Minas Tirith and you and Oswin go home.”

Wynflaed stared up at him. “Home? Well, Oswin might have something to say about that. You see, I haven’t exactly fulfilled my role here in Gondor, have I?” 

“There’s nothing more for you to do for me, Wynflaed,” he muttered as he offered her a hand up. 

“Just so long as we understand each other.”

“I think we do.” 

“Fine.” 

…

Thengel called off the search for Hundor at sundown the next day, leading his party as they groped back up the greenway toward the chaos of the great house. It was well past midnight and the darkest part of the night when they returned, but all around the lawn still buzzed with frenetic energy. Without Halmir, the men of Arnach seemed scattered and nerves ran high. With the help of torchlight, they were busy cleaning up camp under Beldir’s direction. He wouldn't allow them a rest till every bent blade of grass was unbent. 

After leaving Rochagar comfortable in his stall, Thengel made his way to Morwen’s doors. He had his gear in hand and meant to slip quietly through the doors to whatever bed was open with this current wave of guests, but he paused on the threshold, uncertain of what he would find. He had murdered Morwen’s kinsmen, not quite in cold blood, but all the same. 

He caught Beldir watching him from his perch on the wall encircling the well. The scarecrow nodded once in greeting. Thengel returned the gesture, knowing they shared fellow feelings where it concerned Halmir. Then his lips formed a grim line and then he let himself inside. 

...

Thengel met Ferneth pacing with the baby as he stepped inside the hall. He paused. For a moment, he had mistaken her for Morwen. They had the same lithe figure and flowing black hair. The bundle in her arms should have been a clue, but his brain was tired. Out of sight of the men and women from Arnach, Ferneth seemed to diminish a little, looking younger and less authoritative. 

“Good morning, Prince Thengel. You’re up early…or going to bed very late,” she murmured. 

Thengel laid his things on Morwen’s broad table as he approached her. “So are you.” 

She smiled dryly as she swayed with the baby. “Yes, but I’m following someone else’s schedule.” Then she said, more solemnly, “You don’t have any news for me then?” 

Thengel bowed his head. “None. But we’ll find him. My guess is he left the valley straight away and will try to conceal himself near Pelargir.” 

Ferneth frowned. “You think so? How much of that money will he squander before anyone catches him, I wonder?" She shook her head. "I’ll let Lord Daeron’s advisors pursuit it at their expense, if they wish. For myself, I’m none too eager to have him in my sights again.” 

“I can understand that sentiment.” 

Ferneth glanced around the hall, as if deciding to take advantage of the unexpected privacy. “Prince Thengel, I realize you’re exhausted, but I’d like to have a word with you regarding Morwen before we’re interrupted.” 

He bowed slightly, but his clenched jaw gave away what he felt. She regarded him with intelligent eyes. 

“Morwen will be fine, you know. Nothing Nanneth couldn’t patch up.” 

“So my sister told me,” he said. 

“Come, don’t look so grave. It isn’t your fault.” 

He didn’t answer. "I shouldn't have turned my back on him." 

Ferneth crossed to the hearth. Forlong had fallen asleep again and her arms were tired. She sat in one of the armchairs that had belonged to Morwen’s parents and bunched a cushion beneath her elbow to better prop her arm beneath the baby’s weight. Then she leaned back with a sigh. 

“If we’re going to be possessive about blame, I should take my share of it.” 

That startled Thengel out of his silence. “Your share?” 

“Yes. Let’s be fair," she continued. “I knew my brothers-in-law were attending the festival and it felt like a relief to know they would be out of the way for a while. But that Halmir would do this? I see now I erred when I went into isolation. It has allowed much mischief to take place.” 

“This is a bitter time for you, Lady Ferneth, and no one would blame you." 

"No? Who knows how long this would have gone on if not for your rather explicit instructions to make my presence felt here." 

“I prefer to think of it as a suggestion,” he said humbly. 

She gave him a sharp look. “Well, either way, it’s better to do a thing yourself, so you were correct to send for me. Thought to be frank, I didn't know if Halmir would acknowledge my authority."

"It appears you have regained any ground you might have lost when you went into mourning,” Thengel observed. “And then some.” 

Ferneth shot a contemptuous glance at the air, perhaps imagining her brothers-in-law. “It wasn’t for nothing that Hardang made me his wife. My brothers-in-law seem to have forgotten that.” She sighed painfully. "Then again, so had I for a little while.” 

"I'm sorry," he answered. 

Ferneth's shoulders bunched like a ruffled chicken. "Well, don't be. That's life. We can only move forward as best we may. You’ve rid me of one brother who would have been a thorn in my side every day until Forlong comes of age. As for Hundor, he may find yet that I have a preference for sturdy boots and a swift kick. If he ever turns up, that is.” 

A smile tugged at the corner of Thengel’s mouth, despite himself. “I pity your enemies and count anyone fortunate who calls you his friend.”

“You certainly may.” She smiled tiredly. “I like clever, courageous people.” 

“The credit for cleverness belongs to Morwen. She thought up bringing their families here." 

Ferneth smiled dryly. "I'm glad it turned out in the end. There's the added benefit that I have been allowed me to observe my cousin’s champion. Though I confess I'm surprised by how that turned out.”

Thengel crossed his arms. 

Ferneth eyed the foreign-looking horn on the mantelpiece. “Sit down, Prince Thengel,” she ordered suddenly. “I don’t like it when people hover.” 

Thengel obeyed with unusual meekness, but then, he felt quite tired too. 

“I’m puzzled by something,” Ferneth told him. 

“What’s that?” 

“During the duel you struck me as a man far from indifferent to my cousin.” 

Thengel grasped the chair arms. Again he said nothing. 

“Tell me, why won’t you make good on your right to Morwen’s hand?” she asked. “That was part of the bargain, wasn’t it, as her champion?” 

“My conscience wouldn’t allow it,” he said. “And I think it would not profit.” 

Ferneth glanced at him knowingly. “No, I suppose not yet. Morwen will have to think it was her idea. Stubborn through and through. She gets that from her mother's side.” 

Morwen was that, but then, Thengel thought most people had a stubborn streak. He certainly did. Then he asked, “what must she think is her idea exactly?” 

“Giving her hand to a prince, of course. Perhaps that’s why you so nobly withdrew?” Ferneth waited patiently.

“Why? What is your interest in my motivations?” 

“A princess is a nice thing to have in the family. Halmir wasn’t the only one with plans for our cousin.” 

A shadow fell over Thengel’s countenance. “You must be a woman of remarkable vision if you could see that from Arnach.” 

“My family was always clear-sighted.” She looked into his face, causing him to wonder if he hadn’t worn his feelings as close to the vest as he believed. “Ever since the letters, I’ve longed to observe my cousin’s champion. And now that I have, answer me this…just how long have you been in love with Morwen?” 

“What makes you think that I am?” 

Ferneth pursed her lips before answering. “Either you are completely distracted by love or strongly lacking in courtesy. As the Steward’s foster son, I’d like to reject the latter. After all, you never did make it to Arnach to deliver your condolences, and I have been sitting with you this half hour at least without a word about Hardang.” 

Thengel glanced down at his hands. “Lady Ferneth, I’m ashamed…” 

“Yes, yes. But what about Morwen?” 

He blinked. “What about her?” 

“What do you intend to do about her?” 

“Me? I have not right to do anything.” 

“Nonsense. That didn’t stop you from challenging my brother-in-law and sending me rather explicit instructions to take him in hand, if you recall. While I admired your grand gesture yesterday, I think we both know better. You may have given her hand back, but what about her heart?” 

Thengel rubbed his eyes, not particularly enjoying the way Ferneth set him on his toes. “Morwen is young and proud. She wants autonomy,” he observed. 

“Marriage doesn’t have to be a fetter,” Ferneth countered. “Mine wasn’t.”

"What about Bar-en-Ferin? I can't stay here forever,” he said, echoing Halmir. 

"A minor detail." 

Thengel shook his head. Ferneth didn't know her younger cousin very well if she believed that. “Morwen won’t think so. This isn’t just about Bar-en-Ferin. This is about giving up Gondor and the life she knows.” 

“She can learn…” 

“I’ve also killed a member of her family—”

“In defense of a young woman, as I've told you, it’s completely justified. I’m not charging you with murder.” 

“And there is the difference in age,” he added. 

Ferneth laughed. “The difference in age is a trifle,” she continued with so much humor that Thengel nearly thought she might be touched. “You have many years of vigor before you. Morwen has come of age. What else matters?” 

He frowned skeptically. “Seventeen years difference is not a trifle for my people. Our years run shorter than yours. She would be a young widow, perhaps in a foreign land.” He brooded over the thought. Then he said quietly, “And I deem she would not thank me for taking her from her home only to abandon her among a strange people. They are strange even to me now.” 

“I was six winters older than Hardang, yet I am a young widow. Nearness of age won’t protect against that and there will be young widows until sickness and war cease and the world is healed,” she murmured. “From what I can see, the world is only growing more dangerous.” 

“If that’s the case, I can’t see how she would welcome any consideration from me. What would she have to look forward to but pain?” 

“That’s all any of us have to look forward to,” Ferneth murmured as she rocked the child, “but there are also blessings.” Then she looked at him coolly. “Have you asked her, at least?” 

“No!” 

“Then how do you know she wouldn’t welcome it?” 

“She has made her feelings quite plain on that score.” 

“You’ve told her directly that you love her?” 

“No,” he repeated. 

“Then come, Thengel Thrice-Renowned, where is your courage?” 

Thengel glowered. “It’s not a matter of courage. Someone has to be sensible. I won’t put her in the position of having to choose between a life in Lossarnach and one with me, especially when I have a good guess what she wants.”

“You can’t know unless you ask her. The least you could do is offer her the truth.” 

They regarded one another in silence, the air charged with opposing wills. 

“Prince Thengel, forgive me for being blunt considering this is the first time you and I have had a conversation of any depth, but I think I can give you the same advice my late husband would have given you. If you love Morwen, don’t risk losing something precious over the gap of a few seasons. Think about it.” 

Thengel bowed his head, but said nothing. 

The child in Ferneth’s arms seemed to startle awake for a moment and she bounced him gently while watching the prince under her eyelashes as her words took effect. Thengel’s countenance changed as rapidly between desire and uncertainty and fatalism as the weather on the plains in his homeland. His eyes were bright but he frowned deeply as if he dared not hope. 

Lady Ferneth laid down her last card. “Morwen will have a home to return to in Lossarnach when that evil day comes - if she wants it still. I cannot promise Bar-en-Ferin to her descendants, but we will do what we can for her - and I’ll put it in writing as part of her dowry. I’m sure I can scrape something together for her; in fact, I intend to. I’m afraid I owe her for what Halmir has done here.”

Thengel remained silent and thoughtful, mulling over what Ferneth had said until Gladhon and Thurstan appeared to tell him the second search party had returned empty handed. 

“It’s only a matter of time before the other parties return, Prince Thengel. I doubt their news will be any different,” Ferneth said. 

“What are your orders, my lord?” Gladhon asked. 

“Sleep, if you can find a place.” His jaw worked as he came to a decision. “Tomorrow we’re returning to Minas Tirith.”

Twin looks of surprise crossed Ferneth and Gladhon’s countenances. But the guard bowed and left to tell the others without questioning his decision and Ferneth would not until they were alone again. Knowing this, Thengel got up and bid her goodnight before Gladhon was out the door. 

…

Ferneth’s eyes followed Thengel out of the hall with gray displeasure. How is it that they both had eyes in their heads and yet they saw completely different things? And Ferneth trusted her eyes. She knew what she had seen pass over Morwen’s face when the prince reneged. She also knew the difference between righteous anger and wrath born from love and fear. One brought a man to justice, the other removed enemies. Oh to have been a bird in Morwen’s rafters to witness the events that had unfolded here in the past month. But even with that knowledge, she doubted her opinion would greatly alter. 

“So, it’s up to Morwen now,” she murmured to herself. Then she gently pressed the baby to her breast and kissed his soft head.   
…


	39. The End of the Affair

When Morwen woke again, she cracked her crusted eyes and saw Wynflaed across the bedroom throwing things into her pack. 

“Mmph.” She yawned. “What time is it?” 

Wynflaed turned and cocked her head to the side as she observed her friend. “After breakfast some time tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” 

“From when you were last with us, yes. You can thank Nanneth for that. Personally, I think she’s a witch.”

“A witch?” 

“It’s not a criticism. Anyone who can carve a hole in someone’s skull is all right with me.” 

Morwen suspected that Wynflaed had started rambling for her sake. She didn’t remember much past the orchard, but she had dreamed about the skin on her hip. It felt tight and sore in the dream, which unfortunately hadn’t stopped upon waking. She lifted the covers and pulled up her thin shift to reveal a line of dark stitches just above her hip bone toward her back. The trimmed yellow ends of catgut made her think of spider legs. Her bile rose. Shouldn’t she be better about wounds after Guthere’s surgery? 

“At least you got off easily,” Wynflaed said, checking out the stitches with a practical eye. “If you had been facing him, that would be a different story. Nanneth says the bone stopped the knife from doing you any real harm. Now Halmir, he wasn’t so lucky.” 

Morwen tucked the shift back down around her thighs and scooted back against the pile of pillows. She looked away as she asked, “What happened?”

Wynflaed sat in Morwen’s chair. “Halmir wore the one knife on his belt, I’m guessing, to lull Axantur with obvious contraband to remove from the outset so he wouldn’t check for more.”

While everyone had watched the spectacle of Prince Thengel denying his right to Morwen’s hand, Halmir must have slipped the knife from its hiding place and taken aim. 

“I’m not surprised he had a plan if the duel didn’t work out in his favor. Being a sore loser, he took it out on you. At least, we think he meant you, but Ferneth stood right next to you and Thengel had injured Halmir’s throwing arm during the duel.” 

“But after that, you told Thengel to go? I remember that.” 

“And he did go,” Wynflaed answered blandly. “Morwen, your cousin is dead.” 

Silence reigned. Morwen sank deep into the pillows. “But the terms of the duel…” 

“Were forfeited after Halmir yielded. Besides, you were never his opponent. First, Halmir found his sword again while we were distracted with you. But that worked out because, being armed, it allowed Thengel to cut off Halmir’s hand…what? Thengel promised he would if Halmir ever used it to harm another woman. He had to keep his word, but he couldn’t fight an unarmed man. This way he pinned Halmir to the ground without impunity.” 

And in the end, Beldir had predicated the outcome.

Wynflaed’s stern eyes searched Morwen’s for a reaction. But at the news of Halmir’s death, Morwen felt…nothing. Only time would tell them what this meant for their family, but in this moment, the weight of his existence had simply vanished. But then another worry surfaced. 

“But what will the consequences be for Thengel?” Morwen asked. 

“Nothing. Ferneth agreed his actions were justified. She won’t accuse him of murder and they still haven’t found Hundor. Who else around would bother to accuse Thengel, unless you do?” 

Morwen shook her head. “I won’t. I’m just relieved he won’t have any legal fallout on top of everything else. Is Ferneth still here?” 

“Oh, yes. Thengel gave her the library bedroom. Your other houseguests were still picking up after themselves or helping search for the scab.” 

“What about the women?” Morwen didn’t have to do any math to know that they had long since reached capacity at Bar-en-Ferin. 

“Your neighbors took them all in for the night. But I think they’re leaving today.” 

Morwen shook her head. “Everything’s all organized without me.” 

“Don’t sulk. You got to have the most fun, apart from Thengel.” 

“Fun!” 

Wynflaed rose from her seat and stretched. “Sure. Everyone’s going to remember Morwen Steelsheen bravely taking a knife…even a paltry little one…in the side.” 

If Wynflaed thought of that as fun, she didn’t want to know more about her friend’s hobbies. And there was that nickname again. It seemed to be catching on. 

“What’s the difference between a little knife and a large one?” Morwen muttered, not liking Wynflaed’s disparaging tone. “It hurts the same.” 

Wynflaed smirked. “Don’t look so sour. The size of the knife has grown with several retellings. Oh, and you’ve had a string of well-wishers I’ve had to shoo away too. Look, Guthere brought you flowers.” 

A jug of cenedril graced the table under the window and Morwen smiled despite herself. She remembered doing the same for him. How clannish those men had seemed in the beginning. Thengel had stubbornly chosen to sleep in a chair with his legs propped up on a quilt rack when she’d pressed him to accept a bedroom and leave Guthere in her household’s care. And now? That only reminded her of where they had left off. 

Why had she been so slow to realize what was happening to her heart? 

“What’s the matter?” 

Morwen shook her head.

“Your side?” 

“No. Well, yes. But it’s my head.” Morwen leaned forward to cradle her head in her hands and to avoid Wynflaed’s scrutiny. After all, Morwen realized with a pang, that they were now diametrically opposed where it concerned her brother’s future. Wynflaed thought she was a poor fit for Thengel’s wife…and so, apparently, did Thengel. “It feels like I’m swimming in treacle. What did Nanneth give me?” 

Wynflaed shrugged and hefted her pack onto the table. “Some potion. I’ve got more here, if you want it.” 

“No. It muddles my head — and my stomach.” 

“Suit yourself,” she said as she closed the top flap on her pack, “but you may regret it in a few hours.” 

“Ask me again then.”

“Can’t.” 

Morwen glanced up at her. “Why? What are you doing?”

“Packing up,” Wynflaed muttered. “So, have you decided what you’re going to do now that you’re free?” 

“Free?” 

“Sure. We’re leaving and so are the Arnach folk. You’ll be free of houseguests by suppertime.”

“Now?” Morwen rolled out of bed and swayed on her feet. Wynflaed caught her again. 

“Whoa. Steady. Yes. At least, we are. I don’t know about Ferneth’s people. Thengel’s been barking at us to get a move on since sun up.” 

“But I haven’t seen Thengel yet,” cried. “Isn’t he going to say goodbye?” 

Wynflaed shrugged. “Who knows? He’s in an odd mood.” 

Morwen swallowed. “Where is he?” 

“Probably outside already. Wait! Don’t you want to put some more clothes on first? No? Fine.”   
…

The yard was filled with wagons, women, children, and men preparing their gear to return to Arnach. But no matter how much she stood on tiptoe, she could not see around them to where her quarry lay. 

She darted through groups of people, avoiding elbows, and pretending not to hear anyone calling out her name. She made it out of the press of bodies and found Cenhelm, Thurstan, and Gladhon waiting with their horses in the road. Thurstan held the leads on the pack horse and Wynflaed’s mount. They watched Morwen with speculative expressions. Then Cenhelm nodded toward the stable door. It was open. She slipped past them sure of whom she would find. 

Which was nobody. 

Heart racing, she slipped through the groom’s door into the back lawn. Thengel stood inside the paddock, attaching his bags to Rochagar's saddle. The other horses stood dozing together in a loose knot beyond the weather break. He looked up as soon as he heard her coming. Morwen stood pale and uncertain with one hand on the fence to steady her. 

“Thengel, where are you going?” she demanded. 

Thengel turned. He gave her an odd look as he took in her disheveled hair and wrinkled shift. “Back to Minas Tirith,” he said eventually. “Where else?” 

“Now?” 

He shrugged. “I’ve served my purpose. There's no reason for us to linger." 

No reason? Morwen felt stung again. “But there’s no hurry.” 

"I thought you'd be happy to have your house back to yourself,” he answered as he turned back to his work. 

Morwen didn't answer as she leaned into the fence. His indifference made her feel like she had lost her footing. From his behavior, she began to suspect that he thought of her only as a nuisance. Maybe that had always been in the case and she had missed it? 

"Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?” Morwen pressed on, despite her confusion, “when will I see you again?” 

“That depends on whether or not you wish to see me,” he replied gravely. 

“Of course I do.”

He looked up and his expression seemed clearer. “Really? After what happened?” 

“Yes.” 

“Morwen, I killed your cousin.” 

“I know, Thengel. Just after he tried to kill me, if you recall. You gave him a merciful way to end the duel and he forfeited it. I trust your judgement.” 

“Well, that’s new.” 

Morwen swallowed a hasty response. All right, she had questioned his his judgment, but didn’t he realize that was more out of fear for his safety? Maybe his men followed him without question (though she suspected Cenhelm didn’t withhold his opinions) but she wasn’t one of his soldiers. Lately he’d become more provoking than Wynflaed! 

Then she added as an afterthought, “You have to come back. There’s still Guthere.” 

His expression darkened instantly and she wondered what she had said wrong. “Yes, there’s still Guthere.”

He turned away from her to concentrate on checking over the saddle and gear one last time. Morwen watched him in silence, feeling unsure and unable to read the reason for his mood. He had just defeated Halmir, but she couldn't tell the fact by looking at him. Any other bystander might suspect he had lost! 

Morwen tried a different tack. “Look, I’m sorry about our quarrel. You were right, after all.” 

“About what?” 

“About Ferneth and about the duel. So thank you. I should have said it before and I’m sorry I didn’t.” 

He gave her a sharp look. “Thank you?” he parroted with surprise. “You were hurt because I was careless after the duel and you say thank you?” 

“Blame for that rests on Halmir and Halmir alone. Don’t shoulder something that isn’t yours. The fact is, I couldn’t have saved Bar-en-Ferin on my own and for that I thank you.” She held out her hand through the fence. “Don’t leave without shaking hands.” 

"My hands are a mess, Morwen." 

“When have I ever cared about that? Don't be discourteous when I've just admitted I was wrong," she chided. 

Thengel paused, pursing his lips and seemed to be adjusting his emotions to appear neutral. He wiped his hands on his tunic and then shook hers with little grace. But she held on when he tried to free his. 

“When will you come back?” 

“To pick up Guthere?”

Morwen rolled her eyes. “Hang Guthere, it’s because I want you to,” she growled. 

His expression relaxed. “Oh, very well. Soon. Whenever I can.” 

“Is that a promise?” 

“Yes.”

Morwen let go of his hand, satisfied that if she didn’t like this outcome, at least they would see each other again. “I’ll be in Minas Tirith this summer,” she told him, “for the markets once the fruit starts coming in earnest.” 

“I will likely be in Ithilien.” 

Her heart guttered. “Fighting?” 

Now that she had seen him fight, even with such a poor specimen as Halmir, she knew that she shouldn’t feel as troubled for him as she did. But the feeling didn’t go away. 

Thengel shook his head. “Ecthelion plans to recruit Lossarnach men under his own banner and he wants my help settling them. It won’t be for long. I’m not supposed to do any fighting until I’ve—”

“Until what?” He had been under orders not to fight and he had done it anyway on her behalf. She felt tempted to hit him again! She had little faith that he'd keep his nose out of trouble in Ithilien. 

He shrugged as he started to lead Rochagar toward the gate. “It doesn’t matter. Excuse me." 

Morwen opened the gate for him, then shut it again when he passed through. 

“Goodbye, Thengel.” 

He studied her face, considering something. Then he surprised her by scooping his hand behind her neck and kissed her on the forehead. “Goodbye, Steelsheen.”

Morwen remained fixed to the spot, watching him lead Rochagar toward the mounted men and now Wynflaed waiting for him. Before he rode out of sight, he raised his hand in farewell. It was the hand he’d used to give back her own. 

Morwen leaned against the gate long after they were gone. She felt a nudge on her back. Strawberry huffed, hanging his head over the fence to demand attention. Silently she stroked his muzzle. The gelding’s entire coat shone with careful grooming. This wasn't the normal result of Gundor's work. Had Thengel brushed Strawberry too after Rochagar this morning despite their argument?

The answer seemed to drift down to her like a feather, a light touch on her forehead.  
…

Morwen drifted back into the hall. The door to the library stood half-open. Ferneth was there, nursing Forlong. The mother glanced up from her child and blinked once in surprise at her cousin’s state of dress. 

“How are you feeling, Morwen?” 

Morwen rubbed her forehead. “I’ve made Prince Thengel angry. He seemed in an awful hurry to leave. He wasn’t going to wait to say goodbye.” 

“Angry? No, of course not.” Ferneth said, “You’ve just frightened him a little, that’s all.” 

Morwen blinked stupidly. “What?” 

“Your prince and I had a conversation yesterday, but nevermind. Sit down. Put on my wrap before you freeze. Did you go out like that?”

“Yes,” Morwen answered carelessly. She felt tapped out on embarrassment at the moment. 

“Well, it’s a nice parting gift, I suppose,” Ferneth remarked dryly. “Something for him to remember you by.” 

Morwen gingerly lowering herself into the seat and accepting the soft wrap anyway. The wound on her side felt tight and it throbbed with each move she made as Nanneth’s medicine wore off. It was odd how such a cut, so small in proportion to her whole body, could cast an aura of pain all around her. If she moved just so, it tweaked the wound and took her breath away. 

“What were you talking to Thengel about?” she asked after the initial pangs subsided. 

“You.” Ferneth answered frankly. “He’s a bit high-handed, this prince of yours. He practically ordered me to take Halmir in hand.” 

“Yes, he is high-handed,” Morwen agreed. “But he isn’t my prince.” 

Ferneth gazed at her. But instead of asking what she wanted to ask, she said, “Would you like to hold Forlong?” 

Morwen grunted as the weight of the snoring baby dropped in her arms. She held him against her chest and marveled at the way he looked so much like Hardang and then with the slightest change in expression, seemed all Ferneth. The baby blinked drowsily then tried to suckle, startling Morwen in his single-minded effort to feed. Little good that she would do for him! Ferneth laughed quietly at her when she shifted him higher in her arms. The movement sent pain rippling down her side.

“Babies are terrible opportunists,” Ferneth mused as Forlong mewed pathetically before drifting off again. 

“He’s heavier than he looks,” Morwen said with half a groan. And he looked hefty already, she thought. His cheeks alone were the size of a ripe apple each. Red honeysaps, to be precise. 

Ferneth sighed a little sadly and tucked the blanket under the baby’s multiple chins. “Just like his father. Completely solid. When we were first married I felt certain Hardang would crush me to death in bed.” 

That was a picture Morwen did not want circulating through her mind, so she steered the conversation back to the present. “I do wish I had asked you to come sooner.” 

Ferneth did not agree. “Halmir needed the set down and you needed a champion. If Prince Thengel could see to both then all the better. It spared me the effort. All I had to do was stroll across the lawn,” she quipped. Then her tone fell. “I am ashamed to say I knew so little about what Halmir had done that without your letters it might have continued for quite some time.”

“Who knows how long it would have gone on with Prince Thengel.” Morwen shivered, wondering if Halmir ever suspected it would be the last thing he’d ever done. The reality that he had died just the day before in her very orchard hadn’t yet managed to sink in. She changed the subject. “How did you get all the women here?” 

“Wagons,” Ferneth answered. “It was simple enough to discover which of the women had men here. Before your courier they were already coming to the garth to complain about the absences. When they told me the men had followed Halmir to your festival, I should have been warier. But I have not been in an especially good frame of mind of late.”

“It’s true, then, that Hardang recognized you as Forlong’s regent.” 

“It is. Hardang never was insufferably patriarchal, unlike some.” 

Morwen paced with the child when he started to fuss. “I believed Halmir when he said he was acting for Hardang — for Forlong.” She squeezed her eyes shut as if in pain. “It never occurred to me that he was lying about his authority.” 

“Lucky for you that Prince Thengel is less trusting of people who tell their own tales.” Then Ferneth added, “It’s lucky for you that he took an interest. In fact, I’m very curious to know how you’ve managed to lose both your suitors in one day.”

Morwen’s head dipped down, studying the baby with keen interest. “Neither of them ever truly were my suitors. Halmir only wanted the property and Thengel was only pretending.” 

“Was he? That’s a shame.” 

Something like laughter in Ferneth’s tone made Morwen glance up again. “Do you like Prince Thengel?” she asked. 

“Yes,” Ferneth answered firmly. “I do. He reminds me of Hardang.” 

Morwen’s cheek puckered as if she were biting it. She said nothing. 

“I’m a little surprised you never moved into these rooms after your father’s passing,” Ferneth admitted, looking around her. Nothing remained in the study to remind them of either Halmir or Thengel, except for a stack of books on the desk that the prince had forgotten to put away before abdicating the space to Ferneth. Randir’s death poems, a history of Númenor, and the book of northern tales. “This is the master suite, isn’t it?”

Morwen nodded. “I’ve always thought of the study and bedroom as belonging to my parents. At first I didn’t want to change anything, in case it rubbed off any reminder of my father.” A sound issued from her throat, half choking, half laughter. “But after this spring, nothing’s the same anymore. I guess there’s little memory left to hurt.”

“You’ll make other memories. That’s what I tell myself, at least. You’ve done well with Bar-en-Ferin,” Ferneth continued. “Very well. You’re a true credit to Hirwen. That should have taught Halmir a lesson.” 

Morwen recalled Halmir’s description of Ferneth — a decorative cushion with no say in the matter of Bar-en-Ferin. He certainly had underestimated the women in his family. She shivered, thinking of how he had tried to dispose of her. Now he would never have another opportunity to harm either of them. 

“However,” Ferneth said heavily. “You don’t seem at all relieved to have Bar-en-Ferin back and to be rid of Halmir.” 

“My head hasn’t sufficiently wrapped around it yet. Yesterday at this time, he was still alive…and now he’s not. I am relieved to have my home — only, Ferneth, I made the mistake of becoming too attached to something I could lose. I won’t do that again,” she said firmly. 

Ferneth’s head dipped to one side as she regarded the younger woman. “Lose? Morwen, I’m not here to refute your tenancy.” 

“But would you consider selling the property?” 

Ferneth’s expression smoothed so that Morwen couldn’t tell what she was thinking. “You held your own, Morwen. You won’t lose your home so easily again and we will draft a proper lease. But I cannot sell the plantation if Hardang wouldn’t.” 

Morwen nodded, as if she expected that answer. “Thank you, actually.” 

Ferneth looked at her with surprise. “Thank you? What do you mean? I thought you would be upset.” 

Morwen smiled a little to herself. “Upset? No. It simplifies another choice.” She grew thoughtful and gently rocked the child. “I always pictured myself living alone here.” 

“Let me give you one piece of unsolicited advice — I’m getting quite good at it,” Ferneth said with a dry smile, “just because you can do it alone, doesn’t mean you have to.” 

“You mean marry?” Morwen asked. 

“If you wish,” said Ferneth. She tapped the arms of her chair. “I think we have the same candidate in mind and if I were you, I’d take the lead.” 

Morwen would have protested, only she felt it was hardly worth it. Ferneth and Adrahil, she realized, had seen light long before she had, at least where Morwen was concerned. She had her doubts about Thengel. 

“Ferneth, Thengel only used that suitor business as a pretext to gull Halmir.” 

“Was it a pretext? Or did he mean for you to think it was?” 

“Well…” Morwen fell silent. Just how many disguises could Thengel wear at once? “You think he might care for me? He never said so.” In fact, he’d only been severely grumpy! 

“Oh Morwen, I think he has. Maybe not in so many words, but can you blame him? What sort of encouragement have you given?” 

Morwen’s heart began to race and she rocked the baby with more energy. “Before yesterday I didn’t know that I wanted to encourage him!”

There were inklings, she could see that now, but her head found out last. 

Ferneth smiled. “There, you see? Even a warrior used to facing goblins needs a little extra courage to show his true feelings if he suspects they aren’t returned. Did he seem a little prickly when you saw him this morning?”

“Prickly! He behaved like he hated the sight of me.” 

“That’s promising.” 

Morwen stared at Ferneth, wondering if her cousin was a little touched in the head. 

Ferneth laughed. “Trust me. A little effort on your part and everything will turn out just fine.” 

“He’s going back to Ithilien,” Morwen murmured. 

Ferneth winced, just barely. Morwen knew what that place had cost her cousin. 

“You will have to decide what you want, Morwen. Prince Thengel will always have an Ithilien to ride toward, in Gondor…and in Rohan. No amount of romance will make that easy for you. But you have time to make up your mind. I suspect whatever his feelings are toward you, they won’t change overmuch in the waiting. Think about it, then take matters into your own hands.” Then she smiled. “In fact, make that your life’s rule and you should do all right.”


	40. Sums and Summons

Morwen rose in the dark and fumbled around for her dress and apron in what used to be her mother's wardrobe. She hadn't acquainted herself with her new bedroom as well as she had thought and Gildis hadn't come to her yet. Taking her boots in hand, she drifted into the library attached to the bedroom and sat in her father's armchair to slip them on. The leather felt stiff around her ankles after several weeks of wearing nothing but slippers around the house while she healed. But today she had Nanneth's permission to return to the orchard in full strength.

Gildis appeared at the door with a breakfast tray. "Good morning, my lady. Beldir's outside and wants to speak to you."

"Send him in," she mumbled as she laced the left boot.

Gildis deposited the tray on the desk and left. Shortly, the gaunt figure of her overseer appeared, half obscured by the door.

"I'll be along soon, Beldir. I'll meet you in the orchard."

He cleared his throat. "I wanted a word in private, if you please."

Morwen went in search of her breakfast on the desk. "Come in, then."

Beldir crossed the space and held out a piece of paper scrawled over in pencil.

"What's this?" she asked, taking it.

"My estimate of what Halmir's work has cost the farm this year and down the line," he told her grimly.

Morwen scanned the figures and all thoughts of her breakfast. "I'm going to be sick."

Foolishly, she had believed that all the bad news had ended with Halmir's death. Not so. The bad news had only just begun. How could the farm survive on these numbers?

"If we reduce the workers to the number you see at the bottom, we can still bring in the harvest in time and cover the rents without folding, but it won't be easy."

"So many!" Morwen squinted at the number, hoping she was seeing it wrong. "We'll be down to bare bones. What will their families do?" She looked for reassurance from Beldir, but his grim expression gave no quarter for optimism. She ground her teeth as anger replaced the initial shock of their losses. "I told Halmir that this scheme would affect the whole valley and he wouldn't listen. Now he isn't even here to see it that I was right."

Beldir shrugged his bony shoulders. "Wouldn't have helped anyway. There's no teaching some folk."

Morwen folded the paper and put it in her pocket. "I'll write to Ferneth. Her advisors are still drafting an agreement for Bar-en-Ferin and there may be other options. She may agree to a repairing lease until the trees can grow and produce."

At least, she hoped so, but her heart sank.

When Beldir didn't leave, Morwen glanced up at him. "Is there something else?"

He stood at the edge of the desk. "Morwen, have you considered letting the orchard go?"

Morwen gaped at him. "What do you mean?" After what they'd gone through to get it back?

"I can see plain as plain that you've decided to cast your lot with Prince Thengel," he said without looking her in the eye. "Where does that leave us when you go to live with him in that remote, out of the way country?"

Morwen felt broadsided. "Beldir, are you suggesting giving up on the orchard? Really?"

"Before your parents, this was just a hunting lodge with a kitchen garden and a few fruit trees. We can't sustain the plantation with these losses. There's no sense in you fighting to keep it up for the few years you'll have before you go to live with him."

Surprise left Morwen momentarily speechless. Since Ferneth left, no one had spoken to her about any such possibility. Foolishly, she hadn't considered what her household thought about her marrying and perhaps even leaving the valley one day. If it ever came to that. She still hadn't spoken to Thengel.

"Beldir, we didn't give up on the orchard when Halmir arrived with his sketches and his money and his men. We can't give up on it now." She sighed. "The valley needs the orchard whether I'm here to enjoy it or not. As for not, there's no reason to think I'm going anywhere."

Beldir snorted.

"As you are no doubt aware," she said slowly; each word required considerable concentration to maintain the evenness of her voice, "I have not had a word from Prince Thengel in the weeks since he left Lossarnach. Whatever my personal feelings might be, it's best not to jump to conclusions."

"Then you're not set to marry him?"

"You attended the duel. Nobody's set to marry anybody."

"But you would if he asked."

"Prince Thengel isn't going to ask," she retorted. He hadn't even answered her letters.

"Oh. Well. I'll see you in the orchard then. Good morning."

Beldir sounded more optimistic for this news and Morwen felt a twinge of annoyance as she watched him leave. He needn't feel so glad for the orchard at her expense. Besides, Beldir had taken for granted that the asking only went one way.

Thengel would not ask, of that she felt certain. He didn't know that she loved him back, after all. Giving the tardiness of that revelation to herself, she didn't wonder at his own ignorance. But she had decided what she wanted in the interval, and alas for Beldir, nothing could stop her from asking Thengel. Conventions be damned. Ferneth had told her to take the lead and she meant to!

Except, Thengel had vanished beyond the reach of letters or wished her to believe so. And the difficulties at Bar-en-Ferin would not allow her to travel far.

…

Morwen started out for the orchard much later in the day than she had planned. After her talk with Beldir, she had spent the morning penning and re-penning a letter to Ferneth. In the end, she'd tossed down her pen and crumpled up the paper. This discussion needed to take place in person and as little as they could afford it, Morwen needed to ride to Arnach and speak frankly with her cousin and hammer out an arrangement that would keep the orchard afloat. The household of Garth Arnach did have a responsibility to Bar-en-Ferin, after all. By the time she'd drawn that conclusion, her limbs as well as her nerves were in need of clean air and heavy labor for release.

She met Guthere walking along the road with Gundor. He sent the boy on ahead, leaving the two of them alone to climb the hill to where the workers were starting the lunches Ioneth had carried to them. The girl had returned shortly after the Arnach men's departures. In the background, Morwen could hear the dogs barking after birds and squirrels in the fruit trees. Morwen stepped up beside Guthere and together they took the lane under the beeches.

"Hello, miss," he greeted.

"Guthere." Morwen nodded once and smiled. She had grown so used to the sight of his deep red hair and enormous beard and booming voice that she had nearly forgotten what Bar-en-Ferin was like beforehand. "Having a walk?"

"I'm meeting Gundor for some sparring after lunch."

Morwen gestured for him to walk beside her. "It's nice of you to take him under your wing, but are you sure you're ready for that kind of exercise?"

Guthere shrugged. "It's not much exercise, at that. Hareth worries the lad's going to be the farm's punching bag for the rest of his life if someone doesn't show him a few tricks, but he's a beanpole with a long way to go."

"What sort of tricks?"

"Well, I'd be happy if he'd stand up straight. The main thing is, if he postures himself like he's going to be kicked, people will kick him. Got to get that out of his head." Then he said, "You look well, Lady Morwen. You're coming back to work for good or just to tour the orchard?"

"Thank you, I'm back for good. Nanneth says the wound is sound. I can carry as many bushel baskets as I choose now without fear of opening it up again."

They fell into silence as they walked. After a short space, she felt his small eyes studying her.

"What is it, Guthere?" she finally asked.

"Begging your pardon, miss. You look well, but your spirits aren't what they used to be."

"No, I guess not."

"You haven't heard from Prince Thengel yet, have you?"

Morwen hesitated, then said, "No."

June had just arrived since Thengel and Wynflaed left. Ferneth had followed soon after, taking the Arnach squatters with her. In that time and Morwen had begun to heal in body, but some simple math on Beldir's part had revealed the depth of the damage to their stock and to their bankroll. Rather than feeling relief in Halmir's absence, she now began to feel the icy grip of financial distress. The whole valley would feel it, too, as Beldir proposed laying off as many workers as they could afford to let go and still bring in the harvest on time.

Around that time too she had also conceded to herself that Thengel meant to stay away the whole summer, providing another blow. Morwen had made her choice. It didn't take much self scrutiny to realize what she wanted. For a girl who had studiously ignored the future, she had certainly made up for lost time…or meant to.

"You miss him, I guess."

Morwen stared ahead. "You guess?"

"Well, it's what everyone's saying."

After a pause, she said, "He promised to come back. What do you think, Guthere? Will he?"

"If he gave his word, then he will, Lady Morwen."

"But when? I'm afraid he doesn't understand." So much could happen in Ithilien and she couldn't bear to think he didn't know that she loved him.

"I hope he will return soon for your sake," Guthere said somberly. "But for mine, I hope he delays a while longer."

Morwen considered Guthere. His expression gave little away, but she noticed a stoop in his shoulders that suggested anxiety. "You're looking very well, yourself. It won't be easy for you or for Hareth when you resume your duty. I guess it can't be much longer now."

Guthere shrugged and touched the odd tonsure around his scarred scalp. "Funny how life takes a turn. I never had much time to woo women back home. Always riding about on patrols. Never would have credited getting laid up in a strange country would bring me a woman like Hareth."

A short tempered, frizzy haired woman with a gangly son? Morwen thought with a flash of amusement.

"Still, when my three years are up, I'll have to go back to Rohan. Hareth's a little touchy on the subject. We mean to marry, but…." He finished by shrugging again.

Morwen touched his arm. "I'll think of something, Guthere, to keep you together."

Guthere smiled hopefully. "If anyone could persuade the Marshal or Prince Thengel, it's you, Lady Morwen."

Because I am the bargaining chip, Morwen thought. Well, if it was so, she would make the most of her position and that meant initiating it. She'd let others dictate and plan for her and she felt tired of it. Thengel could be stubborn, but so could she.

"Guthere," she said hesitantly as a thought came to her, "Just how dangerous is it in Ithilien?"

"Not so bad as it was early in the spring. The rangers have a better handle on it now."

"And for civilians?"

He started to shrug, but then froze as if a terrible idea had seized him. "Oh no, Lady Morwen. You can't go to Ithilien. Civilians aren't allowed!"

"Even if it's important? We're talking about the future of Rohan's royal family."

Guthere stopped in his tracks and Morwen did too. She blushed. It was the first time she had formally spoken about her intentions to any of Thengel's people. He looked at her in silent stupefaction.

"It's too dangerous, my lady," he said with fresh formality.

"But what if you came with me? As a guide and a guard."

"Well, I could save you from a few orcs, but what's to save the both of us from Prince Thengel's wrath once he clapped eyes on you? He'd have my head for sure…and it's only just starting to feel better," he added with regret.

"I could explain to Prince Thengel…"

"Lady Morwen, sorry, but Prince Thengel won't budge on civilians entering Ithilien and you're the last woman he'd want to see risking her neck out there."

Morwen conceded. It was only a passing thought. The orchard couldn't spare her anyway, not if they had to lay off the majority of workers.

Guthere cleared his throat. "You could seek out Lady Idhren."

"Lady Idhren?"

"Sure. She's Prince Thengel's oldest friend in Gondor, only excepting Captain Ecthlion. Everyone knows that he listens to her above anyone else. She can advise you on how to reach the prince, or you know, how to persuade Captain Ecthelion to send him home. Maybe."

Morwen's spirit buoyed. "I doubt Lady Idhren has that much power, but you may have hit on something, Guthere." But then she imagined telling Beldir of this plan and her spirits promptly deflated again. "I don't know though. We can ill afford it at present, even if I stay in Angelimir's home. I could write, I suppose, but I'm not good at explaining myself on paper. I'd rather talk it over."

Belatedly it occurred to Morwen that she had made quite a few promises. To save the orchard, to make a way for Guthere and Hareth to be together, to vouchsafe the future for the house of Eorl. But how? And when?

In the end, circumstances determined the timing.

…

A week later, Beldir limped into the hall on his crutch with a rag pressed against his nose and papers crumpled into the cuff of his sleeve. Morwen had just left her ledgers in the library when she found him.

"What happened to you?"

"I'd rather not say," he growled.

Morwen regarded him with a dry expression. "I told you to watch yourself with Gundor," she sighed. "Guthere's giving him tips."

"Isn't it time someone packed that redheaded oliphant back to his master?" Beldir growled. When Morwen didn't respond, he added in a more subdued tone, "Anyway, the carts are on their way to Arnach. And here, the courier came."

Morwen's heart began to race as she took several envelopes from the overseer. The first came from Dol Amroth and she opened it eagerly. Aranel had written to her in a careful, looping hand to thank Morwen for her letter detailing the end of the adventure in Lossarnach and how Thengel had disposed of Morwen's antagonists. The rest contained idyllic descriptions of her new home and her husband's family and ended with a wish to see Morwen again soon under happier circumstances.

The second letter came from Arnach. She scanned the contents quickly and then gasped.

"Listen to this," she told Beldir. "Ferneth says that they've arrested Hundor near Pelargir, just as Thengel thought they would."

Beldir snorted. "And the money?"

"It doesn't appear that much of it remained." Morwen glanced up. "Poor Lord Daeron. I wonder what they'll do with Hundor now?"

"Does she say anything about the rents we owe?" he asked.

Morwen shook her head. "I haven't written to her."

She turned over the third letter, hoping to see signs that it had come from Thengel. But when she recognized the seal she felt torn between astonishment and disappointment.

Gildis came in from the passage then and made Beldir show her his nose while Morwen broke the seal and read the contents of the letter. Halfway through, she reached for the table to keep herself upright.

"Lady Morwen, are you well?" Gildis asked. "How pale you look."

"It's a summons," she breathed, "from the Steward."

Beldir's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "The Steward? But what does he want with you?"

Morwen took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "After a laundry list of salutations, he writes that he wishes to discuss my future prospects at my earliest convenience. That's all it says."

The three of them exchanged nervous glances. Lord Turgon rarely took interest in people who weren't his barons or soldiers or scribes. And given his flat refusal to intervene with Halmir, she couldn't understand why he had instructed his scribe to draft this letter to her.

Astonishment burned away to make room for a more inflammatory emotion. Recalling Wynflaed's words about the conspiracy between the Steward and the Marshal, Morwen had a terrible feeling the summons had to do with Turgon's disappointed plans for Thengel. She crumpled the paper in her hands. Whatever Turgon wanted, she would give him a piece of her mind to feast upon! Let that teach him to interfere in her affairs.

"When will you go?" Beldir asked. "And who will go with you?"

Morwen leaned against the table to think. "The letter only says to attend him at my earliest convenience, but I expect he means when it's convenient to him — the earlier the better." Morwen tapped her lips while she thought. "I'll write first to Angelimir's housekeeper so the house can be prepared for me. And I'll answer the Steward's note. I think three days should be enough time. Guthere will go with me."

"But who will come back with you then?" Gildis asked.

Morwen's eyes flashed. "Oh, I'm not leaving Guthere behind in Minas Tirith. You can count on that," she told them as she turned down the passage to the library bedroom to pack.

No, Guthere was her leverage, along with a certain family heirloom.

…

"Are you nervous, Lady Morwen?"

Morwen glanced at Guthere when they stepped beyond the citadel gate and into the morning light. She waited until they had passed beyond the hearing of the somber guards with their winged helmets. Only a few scribes with their wide, flapping sleeves and here and there a lord of the city occupied the courtyard.

"I pretended not to be until you asked."

"Sorry."

Morwen shrugged. "Don't be. I didn't convince myself."

He led her to the citadel fountain with its sad, shriveled, sun-bleached tree. Without the lanterns and floating candles of the feast night all those weeks ago, the spot felt forlorn. Morwen's hand had been tucked into Guthere's arm, but she let go of him here.

"Do you think it'll be a long interview?" he asked.

"I don't know. Why?"

"I thought I might ask around about the missing camp."

"Oh."

They had passed the spot on the road from the Harland where Oswin's riders had set up camp in April, but all traced had disappeared. Morwen hadn't heard that the Marshal had left the city, but she supposed that even he couldn't stay in Gondor indefinitely. It gave her little hope that they would find Thengel still in the city too and they had arrived so late the day before that there hadn't been an opportunity to find out.

"Don't worry about me," she told Guthere. "After I meet with the Steward, I will call on Lady Idhren. You should have plenty of time to find out about the camp and return here for me."

"I'll call for you at the Steward's house then."

Morwen and Guthere parted at the fountain. Feeling very small, she entered the great edifice that housed the king's throne. The chamberlain led Morwen down the corridor toward the throne room. She had vague memories of this journey from the courtyard to the steps leading up to the high, empty seat from her childhood. But it had been many years since Randir had brought her with him on his long, tedious consultations with Turgon.

When the chamberlain ushered her inside the throne room, she felt surprised to see that her memory of Turgon hadn't needed any refreshing. He still looked gray and craggy, but he held himself with the same stern, upright posture that she recalled. The white rod still lay across his lap as though he had remained fixed to the spot in the ten years since she had last tagged along with her father. She wondered if someone came in to dust him every day.

"I present Morwen of Lossarnach, Lord Steward."

"Is this Morwen?" the Steward asked crisply. "Come forward, young woman. Let me see you."

The Steward dismissed his servant and beckoned her to approach the chair. She did so with some reluctance as he scrutinized her face. What he happened to be looking for, she couldn't guess. When she curtseyed, she allowed her hair to fall over her like a curtain.

"Pigtails," he finally said. "I recall pigtails were once a favorite with you."

"Yes, my lord."

Turgon's hollow cheeks puffed, then sagged. "Well. So it is you, child. No longer the gawkish girl holding onto her father's coat tails. Although I see you still have a penchant for sunburns."

Morwen bit her tongue for ten seconds before answering. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Lord Steward."

Turgon's lips formed a thin line. "Hm. That is what everyone says, especially when they want a favor."

"But you summoned me, my lord."

Turgon tapped the arm of his chair. "True."

Silence fell. Morwen's temper rose. Why waste her time sending for her and then have nothing to say?

Turgon cleared his throat. "Pardon me, child, while I gather my thoughts. It's a delicate subject that I wish to speak to you about, in particular concerning your future prospects—"

His words worked on her as well as any kindling. Morwen held up a hand. "Yes, Lord Turgon," she said, her voice echoing through the cavernous hall. "With respect, I have a few remarks to make on that score."

The lines on his face arranged themselves into a look of grudging surprise. "You have, eh?"

"Yes. It's not a well-kept secret that you interfered in my affairs with help from your daughter-in-law. Nor is it a secret that you ordered my cousins to return to Dol Amroth for the sake of allowing Prince Thengel to act solely as my travel companion. All of this you arranged with Marshal Oswin with the intention of encouraging an understanding between his nephew and myself."

Lord Turgon stared down his nose at her without a trace of embarrassment. He looked nearly bored! "I am quite familiar with my role, yes. What of it?"

"Well," Morwen faltered momentarily, "I didn't appreciate it."

"Didn't appreciate it?" Turgon parroted. He watched her for a moment before saying, "I call that ungrateful."

"Ungrateful? You went behind our backs, put my cousin in a difficult position, without once consulting us…"

Turgon raised his rod, silencing her. "On the contrary, I had a candid conversation with Prince Thengel where I told him quite plainly to stop dithering over property rights and marry you himself."

Morwen's jaw went slack. "Lord Turgon!"

"What? Taking yourself off the market is an efficient way of dealing with unwanted, persistent suitors. Everyone knows that. What are parents teaching their children these days?" He sniffed. "I'm sorry we didn't consult you on the spot, Lady Morwen, but these conversations have a way of cropping up unexpectedly…rather like now."

Morwen flushed. Neither Thengel nor Wynflaed had told her that part of the conversation.

"What's the matter, child? Don't you like Prince Thengel?"

"I'll have you know I like him very much, but…"

"But you want to think of it yourself without a bunch of crusty old men sitting in a back room deciding it for you."

Morwen glanced up at the gold vaulting. "Yes!"

Turgon's chin sagged down to his chest as the weight of the world rested on him. "That's typical of youth in these troubled times. In my day, why, one's elders arranged one's life and one had the sense to be grateful for it."

"But my elder relations are dead, sir."

"As your father's old friend, I flatter myself that I may occasionally take an interest in the welfare of his daughter, particularly when there's a chance of securing your future. A prince is a good match. Prince Thengel can offer you a position and security you'd be hard pressed to find in another husband."

"That's very kind of you, Lord Turgon, but really I think I can manage for myself."

"But eligible princes don't gad about Lossarnach everyday, you know. They need direction. They don't just turn up at the door unannounced."

"They do in my experience," she said to herself.

"How are you supposed to move up in the world without a little help? Your parents left you very little to live on and I imagine you're more inclined to meet woodcutters than anyone of your own station."

"I'm well aware of the difficulties of finding a suitable husband. But that's beside the point, Lord Turgon. When I make up my mind to marry Thengel, I shall tell him so without any assistant from you, from Lady Idhren, or anyone else. That's all I wish to say."

"I see. You're that definite, are you?"

"Yes."

He nodded with satisfaction. "Well. That's fine then. Have you finished venting your spleen?"

"No, Lord Steward. Furthermore, I would like to add…"

"Hem."

Morwen saw red when Turgon's smile tugging at his lips. Her mouth snapped shut before she said something fatal. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the chamberlain had enter a second time and gesture toward the Steward.

Lord Turgon held up a gnarled finger. "Pardon me, Lady Morwen. I don't mean to interrupt what promises to be an interesting soliloquy, but the Warden has arrived from the Houses and I know his time is pressing."

Morwen blinked. "Excuse me?" She turned to find the Warden approaching. His arms were stuffed with long rolls of paper. "Oh. Hello, Warden."

"My dear Lady Morwen." He bowed and almost lost his scrolls. "Oops. Thank you for coming from so far to be here."

"What is this about?" Morwen asked. Her stomach quivered the way it always did whenever she missed a step coming down the stairs.

Lord Turgon steepled his fingers under his nose. "It's a business meeting. The Warden here feels especially eager to share his plans with you regarding the gardens scheme, of which I believe you are moderately knowledgeable from your last visit to Minas Tirith."

"Yes," she said hesitantly, confused by the change in the wind.

"I'm afraid I invited you here in order to meddle further in your affairs, seeing that my first attempts to raise you up didn't materialize," Turgon admitted. "But perhaps that's more of an intrusion that you'd like…?"

"Oh." Morwen plucked at her sleeve sheepishly glancing at the floor. "Um…"

"You see, word came to me about the devastation recently wrought on your lands around the same time the Warden and Master of the Archives approached me for aid for their project. As an old friend of your father's I have taken a little interest in your predicament. And I thought perhaps the three of you could work together toward an agreeable arrangement that would benefit both Bar-en-Ferin and Gondor."

Morwen swallowed, feeling vaguely that instead of missing a step, she had jumped off the top of the stairs and landed in a messy pile of her own false conclusions. And had accidentally revealed far more about the state of her own heart to the old Steward than she had ever intended!

The Warden cleared his throat, saving her from replying. "Lady Morwen, if you remember the details of the project, recall that we were missing one vital piece: the land required for our gardens. We were hoping that perhaps we might convince you to open up your home for our project. If you would just step over to that table under the windows, I'd be happy to show you some of the schematics I've taken the liberty of drafting."

Morwen allowed herself to be led to the window. Turgon remained in his low chair and she felt only too happy to turn her back on him till her blushes subsided. Once the Warden rolled out the plans, Morwen felt an uncomfortable sense of deja vu as the blueprints materialized and she once again recognized her little estate.

"How did you get this?"

The Warden regarded her with something like nervousness. "Em. Lord Daeron, actually, supplied the vital information, having had similar plans in his possession. He's donated a rather large sum to the project and he said something vague I didn't quite understand, but perhaps you will. He said he hoped to make up for past mistakes." Then the Warden chuckled. "I knew you would persuade him to part with his money, in the end."

Morwen cringed, feeling alternately hot and cold. She did know what Lord Daeron had meant and she supposed he did feel sorry for his contribution, however inadvertent, to the damage of her estate. But the connection between these schematics and Halmir's made her feel ill.

This is different, she thought. She had a choice this time.

Morwen perused the plans, listening to the Warden and asking questions until eventually his enthusiasm won her over. It would take time to think of her home differently, but she liked that the gardens would promote education and preservation of native species, not simply provide an escape for overheated city dwellers. She even allowed herself to imagine where the greenhouses would go.

"But isn't Imloth Melui too far from the city?" she asked.

"Bar-en-Ferin will serve two purposes. The gardens there will serve as an education and research center, and as a repository. Once we have established the gardens, we can select choice plants for a smaller site on the Pelannor that will be open to the public with rotating exhibits."

Morwen nodded. "I see."

One detail bothered her however. She didn't recall Lord Turgon being included in the Warden's original plans. And she still felt suspicious of him.

"And what is your involvement in this, Lord Turgon?" she asked, turning toward the chair.

The Steward sniffed. "Purely fiscal, I assure you. I can offer you a stipend from the royal coffers to go toward the project, particularly toward materials and labor. Structures will have to be built, greenhouses and such. And there's the little matter of renting the land."

Rent! If they subleased the land it would solve another problem, the gouge to the estate's income from the loss of crops. But one fly still remained in the ointment.

"That's all very well, my lord, but I will need the approval of Lady Ferneth."

"I don't see why," Turgon said. "You are planning to dwell in Imloth Melui for the foreseeable future, aren't you? I was under the impression that you bought the land."

"It wasn't for sale," she bit off.

Something flickered in Turgon's old eyes. "Not for sale. Oh. How interesting." Then he stopped to listen to the city bells tolling the hour. "Well, I'll leave you to negotiate with the Warden and the Lady of Lossarnach." He rose from his dark chair. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a long list of audiences today. Some people," he intoned, "appreciate a little interference from the Steward every now and again."

Morwen took the hint and curtseyed. "Thank you, Lord Steward," she said humbly. "This is, of course, good news for my plantation."

"Yes, I know. Good day, Lady Morwen."

Dismissed, she walked out with the Warden, helping him juggle the rolls, listening with only half an ear to his hopes and plans for the project. The conversation hadn't gone at all like she had thought it would, yet now she had hope for the plantation, providing Ferneth agreed to the scheme.

But of one thing she felt certain: she would begin the project, but others would see its fruition. It was the first time she had thought in concrete terms of her future away from Bar-en-Ferin, setting it up for someone else's success. It was an odd feeling, like being cut loose from a tether and left to drift. Where would she end up if someone didn't catch her?

…

Guthere hadn't materialized at the fountain again, so Morwen decided to continue with her second errand in the city. Nervous, she led herself to the Steward's house and a servant opened the door to her before she could knock. Rather than being ushered in to Lady Idhren's rooms, the lady of the house appeared in the foyer with another servant trailing behind her. She reached out with both hands to clasp Morwen's clammy ones. All the while, her cat and canary grin remained fixed in place. Had they been watching for her?

"Ah, Morwen. I received your note. So nice to have you in the city again."

"Thank you for seeing me on short notice, Lady Idhren."

"Believe me, I've been eager to see you. There's so much to talk about since last we met." She glanced around the space. "Didn't any servant come with you?"

"Yes, Thengel's man. He's on an errand for me now."

"Ah. Good." Idhren told her, "You'll take tea with me and he should be back for you by the time we've finished."

Idhren coaxed Morwen into a pristine sitting room. A chubby boy and a dour woman occupied a laden table that dominated the space under a window overlooking the back garden. It took all of Morwen's concentration not to press her nose to the glass to judge the current state of the greenery — and perhaps to look for the bench where Thengel had first pledged to help her.

Idhren interrupted her thoughts. "Have you met Denethor? Darling, put down that cake and say hello to Lady Morwen. He's Thengel's godson, you know."

Morwen looked at the chubby boy with renewed interest. "Hello, Denethor."

"Hello," the boy said sullenly.

"And this is Niniel, my waiting woman."

Morwen nodded to a sullen faced woman who busied herself slicing a muffin into tiny slivers and arranging them around her plate. When finished, the woman took her time choosing which sliver to sample first. She managed to eat one before Idhren dismissed her and her son.

"Denethor, it's time for you to read to Niniel. Move along now."

"But mama, I want another cake…"

"And I want to enjoy a nice conversation with Lady Morwen. You've had enough cake for one day."

The boy glowered and so did her waiting woman, but they both rose to obey. Morwen felt a little sorry for Niniel, until she saw the woman tip the contents of her little plate into a napkin when she thought nobody could see.

Idhren indicated for Morwen to sit across from herself. A servant materialized to lay fresh plates before them, before disappearing again. Idhren poured tea.

"Thengel told us all about what took place in Imloth Melui when he came back. How is your estate?"

"Up until now, I would have said we were ruined," Morwen told her bluntly. "But today we've had good news, unlooked for."

Idhren considered her for a moment. "I'm glad." Then she said, "I understand you were involved in the duel that helped decide the plantation's future."

"Not on purpose."

Idhren smiled to herself. "No, I gathered that from Thengel's excessive guilt. Poor dear. One would gather that he took a stab at you himself."

"I'd rather not talk about it, really," Morwen murmured.

Idhren gave her a compassionate look, which Morwen hadn't expected from her. Then she grinned. "Let's talk about me then. I'm pregnant. Cake?" She gestured for Morwen to hand over her plate.

Morwen stopped mid-reach and blinked. "Oh. Congratulations."

Idhren heaped cake onto Morwen's plate "Thank you. I'm thrilled. To think this would happen at my age," she said, "which is thirty-five."

"Lord Ecthelion must be very happy," Morwen said, at a loss for another response.

"He doesn't know yet, as I've only just discovered it myself," she said matter-of-factly. "You're the first to know, which is why I had to send Denethor and Niniel out of the room."

Morwen shifted uncomfortably. "Wouldn't you want to tell Lord Ecthelion first?"

Idhren stared at her with something between pity and amusement. "Goodness no. Men never react the way you want them to about important news. Always tell another woman first. That way you won't be disappointed when he says something stupid like, 'That's nice, dear. Pass the chicken.'"

"You mean he won't care that you're having his child?" Morwen thought he sounded heartless.

Idhren rolled her eyes. "Of course he'll care, it just comes out sideways. When you've been married as long as we have, you'll find spouses grow rather complacent."

Morwen poked at the cake with her fork. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You've been a tremendous help already."

"Me?" Morwen asked, glancing up.

"Yes. He's become far more attentive lately. He even apologized for returning to Ithilien early. My theory is that seeing Thengel falling head over heels and fighting duels made him finally realize a little romance was missing from our relationship. And then one thing led to another…but you know all about that."

Morwen frowned. "That's more than I know, actually."

Idhren looked concerned. "What? About babies?"

"No…" Confound it. Why were conversations with Lady Idhren like skipping rope? "I mean about what you said concerning Thengel."

Idhren snorted. "Oh, that he's in love with you? Don't be silly. Everyone who knows him knows it."

"When I tried to ask him he yelled at me," Morwen grumbled.

Idhren sipped her tea, then said. "You can't expect him not to be a little excitable."

"Excitable!"

"People tend to be a little jumpy around the subject." Idhren smiled. "You know Ecthelion behaved the same way right before he asked me to marry him. We fought constantly. He admitted later that he lived in fear that I would choose someone else…although in his case, that was very nearly true."

"You were in love with two men at once?"

Idhren waved a hand in the air. "Oh, one of them only marginally. There were a few moments of weakness when I might have married Thengel himself if he'd asked. But then, he knew how Ecthelion felt, so he never did."

Thengel and Idhren! Morwen nearly fell backward in her chair. And she had chosen to come to Idhren for help!

Her hostess gave her an arch look. "Oh, you needn't turn green. That happened a long time ago. Why, you were probably only a toddler then," she quipped. Then she frowned into her teacup. "My goodness, you're young."

An uncomfortable thought came to Morwen, despite Idhren's assurances. "Is that why he's never married before now?" Because he'd been pining after Idhren? After all, he had come of age around the time Morwen had cut her first tooth — a fact she hadn't considered very heavily before now.

A faint look of surprise passed over Idhren's face. "Perhaps partially, but that was years ago."

Morwen bit the inside of her cheek. "Was there no one else that he loved? Even in Gondor?"

"No one of consequence. Certainly no one he told me about," she said with the firm conviction of being in Thengel's total confidence. "But consider that before this year he never believed he could pursue a woman from Gondor."

"He can't?" she said, not concealing her dismay.

"Couldn't, Morwen. King Fengel, or Lord Oswin really, has relaxed his stance on that score. But in the past certainly Thengel only had the choice of brides from Rohan. That fact coupled with my own husband's role in keeping him very well occupied in soldiering, he's not had much time for falling in love."

Morwen thought back to Guthere's account of falling in love with Hareth. Like them, it had taken an accident for Morwen and Thengel to meet and for Thengel to have the leisure to come to know her. Now that Ecthelion had Thengel back on the treadmill, another chance might not come again. She decided to appeal to Idhren's long standing friendship.

"Lady Idhren…"

"Call me Idhren. Thengel does and you and I are to be friends."

"Idhren. Thank you, I would like to be friends. And I need your advice. You know Thengel so much better than I do."

Idhren smirked a little, responding favorably to hints of her superiority. "For now. I expect you'll surpass me eventually."

Morwen intended to. "I need to speak to Thengel. He left not knowing how I feel about him and…"

"And you're worried he may never find out."

Morwen nodded. "I've written, but never heard back. Is it possible that any of my letters might be forwarded?"

"I'm not surprised he hasn't responded. Thengel only spent only three days in the city before riding out to Ithilien." Idhren leaned back in her chair and thought. "Sending word to the rangers is no easy task. They keep secret bases the couriers can't find. And it could be that he may not return until Ecthelion comes back to the city."

"When do you expect Lord Ecthelion to return?"

"Well, that's always the question. Every year he says," her voice deepened to mimic her husband, 'this will be the year he takes some time off for the family and lets his lieutenants have the run of things.'" She resumed her normal voice, but with a note of wistfulness in it that Morwen had never heard before. "But he always finds a way to push it off. Only the Valar know what would happen if we ever had a real war for him to worry about. Anyway, I'm rambling. To answer your question, he had better plan to be here in the winter when my time comes."

"He'd be gone that long?" That meant she might not see Thengel for nearly half a year! She would have to think of something.

Idhren gave her a knowing look. "Thengel isn't necessarily bound to Ecthelion's schedule, Morwen. Who can say? Although, I will tell you frankly that if you marry him, you're also marrying his duty. It's going to be a threesome and you will have to take second place much of the time."

Morwen felt Idhren watching her as she absorbed this information.

"You are going to marry him, aren't you?"

Morwen leveled her gaze at her hostess. "That's what you're telling everyone, isn't it?"

Idhren grinned. "See? It does make conversations so much simpler when we're honest. Try to remember that when you meet the Marshal."

Morwen dropped her fork. It landed in the piece of cake which she had reduced to a pile of crumbs. "The Marshal is still in the city?"

"Yes, but he won't be for long," Idhren told her. "He's going to meet Thengel in Ithilien before he returns to Rohan. His men have already moved their camp beyond the Rammas Echor. Morwen, if you wish to send word to Thengel…"

Morwen's spine hardened with determination. "Then I need to speak to Oswin."


	41. Nieces and Negotiations

“Well, this is it.” 

Morwen squinted up at the sunlight reflecting off the white edifice set deep in a dusty courtyard. “This is Thengel’s house?” 

Guthere nodded. Then he glanced at her shrewdly from the corner of his eyes. “What do you think of it?”

“Hmm.” 

Morwen peeked through the bars of the gate into the cobbled space within the walls. A tree with limp leaves rose apologetically out of one side of the space. Old seed pods littered the sparse grass beneath it. The place had an abandoned feel, perhaps owing to the assumption she had made that this house numbered among the abandoned piles throughout the city. If she thought Idhren’s garden needed help, Thengel’s looked somewhat beyond repair and certainly choked for want of water and fertilizer. 

She vowed to tackle the outdoor space first…assuming, well…best not to get ahead of herself. 

“I must have passed it a thousand times and never knew who owned it or that anyone did.” 

Guthere shrugged. “Well, he don’t spend much time here and never, eh, entertains.” 

“Except for his uncle.” 

Guthere scratched his head. “Though, Prince Thengel’s usually sneaking out the back door whenever Oswin comes to town.” 

Morwen glanced over at Guthere. “That isn’t how one treats one’s relations.” 

“Prince Thengel will be surprised to hear that.” 

They grinned at one another. 

They remained outside the gate in silence while pedestrians passed around them. Occasionally, when a breeze blew a certain way, she could smell the hay and a few other aromas from the public stables nearby. That settled it. Thengel couldn’t come back here for any length of time. It wasn’t wholesome. 

“Shall we go and knock on the door?” Morwen asked at last. 

Guthere tugged on his collar with his free hand. In the other, he carried a box for Morwen. “Must we necessarily?” 

“Don’t you want me to speak to the Marshal for you?” 

Guthere changed his grip on the box and opened the gate for her. “Well, I did, but now that we’re here, I feel less keen. Suppose he says no?” 

“Remember we have our advantages,” she told him as she went ahead. “The trick is knowing how to apply them. Do you have any advice?” 

Guthere glanced at her. “To hear Cenhelm tell it, Marshal Oswin’s already settled his mind one way where Prince Thengel is concerned. It’s me I’m worried about. Don’t let him cow you, that’s all.” 

No, Morwen had had her fill of that sort of treatment to last her a lifetime. She waited while Guthere knocked on the door. 

A thin, silver-haired servant answered and let them in. His eyes, which had looked politely vague at first, sharpened with curiosity. The man would recognize the rider but not his companion. 

“Eriston, this is Lady Morwen,” Guthere said. “She’s here for the Marshal.” 

Morwen only half listened as her gaze wandered down the passage lined with doors and up the stairs. Gildis would approve of the cleanliness and Morwen felt happy to see that even if the courtyard lay abandoned, at least Thengel’s servants weren’t cheating him out of good housekeeping within. Only, the space wanted something. A stray boot or a slightly crooked picture or a jug of flowers. Something to make it look less like a model. 

The servant bowed mechanically. “Lord Oswin is upstairs. Would my lady like to wait in the library for him?” 

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Thank you.” 

“Er, I’ll just wait in the kitchen,” Guthere mumbled. 

Morwen raised an eyebrow. “Wait, give me the box then.” 

Guthere passed it off before shuffling past her down the passage. 

Eriston led her only a short space, stopping at a heavy, wide door. He ushered her through to a long room with windows facing the courtyard. Books lined the walls on two sides of the room. Furniture commanded the center floor and a desk stood next to the fireplace. Piles of maps and loose papers were weighed down by colorful stones. No wonder, Morwen thought, that Thengel preferred her father’s library of all the rooms in her home. The only thing missing from Randir’s library was a spear and war gear heaped in one corner. Morwen wondered about that. 

Alone, Morwen placed the box on a shelf above an empty hearth, then went to stand in front of a painting that had caught her eye. The style she recognized as belonging to Teitherion. She had enough of his pieces in her own home to recognize his craft when she saw it. But she hadn’t expected that Thengel would also own artwork by her neighbor. Thengel didn’t mask his disgust for Teitherion and his unusual ways, after all. 

It soon became clear why he would own this particular painting. “The Wayward Son in Exile,” she read from the brass plaque. “Teitherion 2923.” 

Wayward son. She thought she knew Thengel’s feelings on that choice of words. Wayward father, driven son, sounded more exact. 

“Ah, you no doubt recognize my nephew’s younger self.” 

Morwen jumped, then turned toward the voice. The doors to the passage stood open just as Eriston had left it, so she had not heard anyone enter. Morwen recognized the man, clearly old, but remarkably hale. Oswin. His hair was tied back in three heavy white braids. On the marshal’s russet tunic, the device of the house of Eorl, a horse embroidered in white and gold by a careful hand. 

When he saw her she thought he looked a little uncertain, but when he reached for her hand, his grip belied any uncertainty. “Lady Morwen. I’m glad to meet you again.” 

“Lord Marshal,” she said. “Forgive me. I have come uninvited.” 

Oswin smiled through his great beard. “I am alone here. Company is most welcome. And you’ve returned Guthere, too.” He gestured at the wall, halting her protest. “Do you like the painting? I found it half buried by papers in a locked drawer. Thengel’s man hung it up after I badgered him.” 

“A locked drawer, Marshal?” 

“I needed stationary. Do you think it is a good likeness? Judging by the year there, the artist painted this when my nephew arrived in the city.” 

Morwen turned back to the picture. She recognized a market scene from Minas Tirith. The image Teitherion had rendered of the horse left her feeling a little uneasy for the pedestrians, particularly with the grim young man riding him. The wild, tumbling hair drew her attention, especially. Had Thengel ever had such long hair? Like Wynflaed’s? Teitherion had caught the hardened expression, but also the occasional flicker in Thengel’s eyes she had grown to recognize. She’d seen it directed at Halmir and at herself. 

If painted when he arrived, he would have been about eighteen and fresh from his homeland, Morwen thought. So, this is Thengel of the Rohirrim, not Thengel of Gondor. She felt an odd twinge in her belly, a longing to know more of the man in this painting. Not the grimness, per se, but without the Gondorian influence. Not that he would change in essentials, but the filter would be different. 

“He reminds me of Wynflaed here.” 

Oswin looked surprised, but then he nodded. “They have much in common, which more often than not results in clashes. But where are my manners? Please sit down.” 

He gestured toward the chair and sofas across from the hearth as Eriston appeared with a tray of cakes and chilled wine. She accepted a glass before the servant promptly stole out of the room. 

Oswin chose the chair and she sat on the end of the sofa. Then she said, gesturing toward the embroidered horse on his tunic. 

“That is beautiful needlework. I have been admiring it since you came in.”

“Thank you,” he said, gently running his fingers over the horse. “My wife’s handiwork. She’s passed now.” 

“I’m sorry.” Morwen reached for a cake to give to him, feeling awkward and forgetting that he was the host and she the guest. 

He shook his head, accepting the cake. “No need. She passed a few years ago, peacefully. We were married for more than fifty years.” 

“So long! Do you have children, Marshal?” 

“None but what I borrow from my sister,” he replied wryly. “Queen Wynlaf’s children occupy most of my time that isn’t devoted to the Mark.” 

“I’m surprised you have time for anything else,” Morwen murmured, her expression glazed. 

The Marshal laughed. “Yes, you’ve met two of them, of course. The most volatile of the three.” Then he said, “my niece and nephew were very complimentary of the valley around your estate. Imol..Im…” 

“Imloth Melui, yes, the valley where I live.” 

“I have heard that the land is spoken of as a vale of flowers.” 

Morwen smiled with unmasked affection. “Many, many flowers. Trees and herbs, too. Anything good that grows, really. Have you ever been to Lossarnach, Marshal?” she asked. 

“No, never,” Oswin answered. “I have longed, now and again, to visit the site at Poros where the Rohirrim constructed a mound for our fallen princes and warriors. But the king’s business keeps me occupied in Minas Tirith.” Then he looked at her closely. “You’ve had trouble at home, I think.” 

Morwen glanced down into her wine. “Did Thengel tell you that?” 

“Thengel and Wynflaed and Cenhelm have each given me varying reports on what passed during their stay.” His voice grew stern. “It’s a bad business.” 

Morwen felt her hands grow clammy around her glass. She wondered if he blamed her for putting his nephew in danger. Or perhaps Wynflaed had reiterated her position on Morwen’s unworthiness to fill the role of queen. Would Oswin warn her off any future possibility of a relationship between his nephew and herself? She hadn’t considered that possibility. 

“They were a great help to me,” she said with only a little tremor in her voice. “I would have lost everything without them…especially Thengel.”

The Marshal’s keen blue eyes seemed to look through her. “Is that so?” 

Morwen swallowed. “Yes.” 

The Marshal set down his glass and the plate and regarded her for what felt like an age. “Would you say he’s made himself indispensable?” he asked shrewdly. 

“Well.” Morwen stopped and considered. “Perhaps so. At least it seems impossible not to equate him with my home now. He fought for it, for my sake.” 

The Marshal’s gaze fell somewhere over her shoulder as he sat in quiet thought. His lips pursed in and out as he mulled over whatever it was that occupied him. At last his eyes focused on her face again. 

“Although I have never seen Lossarnach, I can understand why you would fight to keep it,” Oswin said. “My nephew also has a home, Lady Morwen, whether he acknowledges it or not — and it too is worth fighting for.” 

“You mean Rohan.” Morwen’s heart guttered a little, wondering if he meant that as a reproach. 

“I do,” he said gravely. “Do you know the circumstances behind Prince Thengel’s exile?” 

She nodded, scrambling in her mind for ways to deflect the Marshal away from talk of his nephew’s exile. It had been aired often enough in the last months. 

“I know the circumstances, but I confess I know very little about the Rohirrim or your country. Would you tell me about them?” 

A light began to kindle in Oswin’s eyes and she knew she hadn’t chosen poorly. 

“The people are stiff-necked and slow to change, but great in heart and pride. Some would call the Rohirrim clannish, though we seldom have strangers among us to have an opinion either way. Fierce and swift when we’re called to protect our own,” he gave her a look and then grinned, “particularly our horses.” 

Morwen chewed on her lip as a worrisome thought entered her head. “Are the people very much like Wynflaed?” she asked hesitantly.

The Marshal’s booming laugh would have shaken the dust from the rafters if they had been sitting in Morwen’s hall and she felt herself begin to blush, realizing he had read her thoughts rather clearly. 

“My niece is a particularly condensed sample. Does she worry you?” 

“I enjoy Wynflaed, and I think we’re friends,” Morwen confided. “We are, however, very different women. Her methods can be worrisome, yes, though I think she means well.” 

“Too true.” He chuckled for a while longer at Morwen’s expense. She sipped her wine, feeling embarrassed, though she liked the Marshal’s laugh even if it was boisterous. It felt more comfortable than Turgon’s sour asides. 

“And the country itself, what is Rohan like?” she asked. 

“We call it the Riddermark or the Mark.” Oswin’s eyes seemed to see past the walls to some far away land. “Weather’s changeable. Come for the summer breezes; stay because you’re snowed in. That’s June, typically.” 

That had to be an exaggeration, Morwen thought. It couldn’t possibly snow that much anywhere, let alone in June. 

“When the summer brings it’s storms, fire follows soon after. It’s like witnessing the fury of the gods. It smells horrible, a real desolation.” 

Morwen imagined walls of fire spreading across the southern plain of Lossarnach. “That sounds frightening.” 

Oswin shrugged. “It can be dangerous for folks caught unawares, but the grasslands need the fire as much as they need rain and sunlight. Keeps the trees down and the soil wholesome. And the plain is never without the grass for long. It grows as tall as you in some places.” 

Morwen wasn’t sure she believed that either. 

“When the wind moves over the grass, the colors ripple as if the plain a living creature moved in the light. Not just green, but burnt ochre, tawny gold, russets. And in the living grass, flowers of many colors grow. We say the horses run with the plain, not over it.”

“I would like to see that one day,” Morwen remarked gently. Then she asked, “I suppose there are orchards and farms, too, besides grass and horses.” 

“The West Vale is crowded with fruit and vegetables and grains.” 

“Is it true that the Rohirrim do not speak Westron?” 

Oswin nodded gravely. “It is, mainly, but I hope that will soon change. We need to interact with the rest of the world and we need a leader who will make us.” His head sank down to his breast as he thought. “With the royal family divided, you can imagine the state of the Riddermark. It needs a strong, undivided leader to repair the hurts of a generation. That is my hope for Thengel.” 

Morwen felt uneasy about Oswin’s hopes for his nephew, like a cramp forming in her belly. She especially doubted her ability to be of much use to Thengel to that end, especially if the Rohirrim were as clannish as the Marshal said. She would be an outsider and the thought made her doubt the wisdom of what she had come to do. And yet, should that be allowed to get in the way of Thengel’s happiness or her own? 

“The Riddermark may have to wait for another generation, Marshal,” Morwen reflected with more boldness than wisdom. 

He gave her a sharp, thoughtful glance. “That’s bleak. I’m beginning to doubt we’ll see another generation,” Oswin muttered. “Are you implying that Prince Thengel is not the undivided leader we need?” 

Morwen set down her wine glass before she spilled something. “Have you not seen Thengel?” she asked, warming to the topic. She hadn’t realized how long she had desired to speak to someone about this — ever since they had left Minas Tirith together and she saw Thengel interact with the Marshal’s camp. “He squabbles with his nearest relations and sometimes I think even Cenhelm and the rest of his men don’t know how to classify him. Do you remember that day he left with me for Lossarnach?” 

Oswin’s brow darkened. “Yes, he had the gall to wear the Steward’s hauberk into my camp.” 

“Exactly. Marshal, do you realize you can’t tell he’s Rohirric once he puts that winged helmet on. He can erase his identity as easily as getting a haircut and a shave.” 

“Hmm.” Oswin thought for some time before speaking. “An interesting observation, child. I have had similar inklings. I had hoped with age and maturity…” 

Morwen sat on the edge of her seat, leaning toward the Marshal. “But have you also considered that his identity, his life, is divided. How can he bring unity to anything in this state?” 

“How do you mean?” 

Her hand fluttered as she tried to put her feelings into words. “He isn’t whole within himself. He’s a hybrid of Rohirric stock and Gondorian values. I believe he would do his best by Rohan - he’s proven his good character to me and he has other virtues - but bringing unity to the Mark the way you envision might be beyond his ability as he is now.” 

The Marshal considered this new idea with a frown. “Twenty years is a long time to spend away from one’s home.” He wagged his head slowly. “Still, he ought not to have forgotten himself.” 

Morwen wet her lips while she considered this. “I don’t think Thengel forgets, per se. It must be frustrating to worry about a homeland he can’t return to while trying to have a life here, always living under the possibility that at any moment he might have to pick up and leave it all behind. He can choose to feel homesick for two places at once or else never to settle anywhere.”

Oswin sat in stunned silence. Morwen felt a little stunned herself. She’d held this conviction, half formed, in her heart for such a long time. As the words came, the conviction grew, along with her sense of urgency. 

“My whole life I’ve know a home and what it means to belong. But to be always uncertain,” her thoughts drifted and she simply finished by saying, “I pity him, Marshal.” 

“Pity?” Oswin barked, as that particular phrasing pulled him out of his stupor. “This uncertainty as you call it, it’s better than the alternative, I can tell you. The king might have had his head for disturbing the peace of the Golden Hall.” 

“I realize that,” Morwen said delicately. “I know your intervention saved his life. He’s made his own mistakes and I dare say his father helped him along.” Oswin snorted, which she ignored. “But understand that Thengel is homeless, trying to fit into a foreign land while feeling pressured to meet the demands of duty placed upon him from both Rohan and Gondor. You may not realize what a burden that is to Thengel, never to be present anywhere.” 

“Is that so?” Oswin harrumphed. “You know about that, do you? This has been a source of consideration for you?” 

Morwen brushed Oswin’s prickliness aside. She hadn’t meant it as a critique of the Marshal’s methods or to justify Thengel’s past behaviors. “I think he wants to do right, but he has to have something that’s his before he can be the leader Rohan needs.” 

“Oh? And what’s that?” 

Morwen’s hands formed into fists in her lap. “Well, me if he wasn’t so stubborn,” she blurted without thinking. She clapped a hand over her mouth. 

The Marshal’s great, booming laughter made her jump a second time. It sounded like Thengel’s only deeper she realized as she cringed in embarrassment.

“I didn’t mean to say that.” 

He laughed again, her frankness evidently not disturbing him. “We are a plain-spoken people you’ll not easily offend.” Then he sobered. “So, you’ve taken a special interest in my nephew? Good. I’m glad you’ve come to the point at last. Now I can mention the betrothal without being forward according to the rules of Gondorian missishness.” 

Morwen’s breath caught in her throat. “Pardon?” 

A line appeared between his heavy brows. “Are you not engaged to my nephew?” he asked. 

It took a feat of strength for Morwen not to gape at the Marshal. “If I am, you know more of the matter than I do,” she said. “Prince Thengel has only indicated to me that we are not betrothed.” 

The Marshal pursed his lips, though somewhat lost in his beard. He rose and paced toward the window with his hands behind his back, thinking. He turned toward her again. 

“It has been reported to me that earlier this spring my nephew announced his courtship of one, Morwen of Lossarnach, that he beat out his rival and achieved her hand,” he said in such dry terms that he might as well have been reciting from the chronicles. “Is that not so?” 

Morwen schooled her features into a look of indifference, though she longed to cringe. “It isn’t exactly. I should tell you, Lord Marshal, that what you’ve heard ends just short of the truth. He did defeat his…rival…but he didn’t make good on his claim.” 

His blue eyes fixed on her face, then seemed to take her all in with one swift sweep of his eyes. He seemed momentarily thrown off course. The lines in his face grew deeper. 

“Did the prince give you a horn - an heirloom of the house of Eorl - as a heortgifu?” Lord Oswin indicated the hearth with a bow of his head. 

Oswin waited for her answer.

“Yes, he gave it to me,” she said slowly. “But it was a peculiar circumstance. He forgot to take it back again — in fact, I’ve brought it with me so that he can have it back.” Morwen gestured toward the mantelpiece where she had kept the box containing the object. 

The Marshal gave her an odd look. “You may not understand, being Gondorian, that giving it back in our society would mean that you wished to break the engagement.” 

Morwen met his gaze. “Marshal, may I ask what difference it would make to you if I returned it or not?” 

“What difference to me?” he boomed. “Well, it would be a blasted nuisance if you gave it back now.” 

Morwen blinked, not expecting such vehemence. “It would?” 

“Yes. I don’t relish playing Thengel’s matchmaker. You have no concept of what an ungrateful wretch he is. Why, at his age Fengel already had two children.” 

Morwen sagged against the back of the sofa, torn between relief and regret. On the one hand, Oswin wasn’t refusing to allow her to marry Thengel and her fears of his disapproval (or Wynflaed’s) were unfounded. On the other…she had bad news for the Marshal. 

“Then I regret to tell you that the prince and I are not betrothed and never have been.” 

She received a glower as thanks, which reminded her all the more of Thengel, especially in their last days together.

“But the horn,” Oswin began. 

“Part of an act, I’m afraid. I don’t know where you received your information, but I certainly cannot confirm this rumor. Prince Thengel’s reasons for leaving the horn are equally out of my power to explain, except it must have been by mistake.” 

“My sources were certain,” said Marshal Oswin gravely. “Hm. It is an odd business.” 

“An honest mistake, perhaps,” she said dryly, thinking of Idhren. 

“Wynflaed is typically more reliable than most.” 

“Wynflaed!” Morwen gasped. “But she saw the whole thing…she knows….” 

Morwen thrust out her hand, as if the gesture would mean anything to the Marshal. He just blinked at it. Why would Wynflaed tell her uncle that she and Thengel were betrothed when she clearly saw Thengel break it off. And when she didn’t approve of Morwen anyway? 

“This is very puzzling to me,” Oswin continued. “My niece told me Thengel acted as your champion and suitor, that he presented you with the horn. And now you tell me that you’ve refused him.” 

Morwen expression flared in the heat of sudden temper. “I didn’t refuse him, but he wouldn’t take my hand when it was given to him.” 

Oswin’s expression drooped into a glower. “He wouldn’t, would he?” He slapped his hand on his thigh and muttered, “Typical Fengling ingrate.” 

Guilt dowsed Morwen’s anger. “It wasn’t his fault,” she said without reflection. 

He looked at her closely. “What do you mean? Whose fault could it be?” 

“Mine,” she admitted with no small mortification. She had been the source of her own doubt. “I thought he tried to trap me and I made my position very clear that I found marrying him undesirable.” At least that sounded better than admitting she’d chucked an heirloom at his head. She hoped Wynflaed hadn’t told Oswin about that!

Oswin appraised her again. “You thought a prince tried to trap you?” he asked skeptically. “And what, pray, are you?” 

The question surprised her. “Well, I’m a…farmer,” she said glumly. 

Morwen saw the situation through a different angle - Thengel’s angle. She blushed. It sounded so stupid when she put it like that. Why would a prince rope a backwoods girl with a dusty pedigree, and nothing but a few acres of fruit trees and herbs to recommend her? If she had had an ambitious bone in her body, she ought to have seduced him! She never seemed to have the correct frame of mind until too late. 

But Oswin smiled. “What’s wrong with that? Remind me who was your father and who were his people?” 

Morwen’s eyes lost focus. “Lord Randir of Belfalas, second son of Prince Aglahir, brother of the late reigning Prince Aglahad of Dol Amroth,” she recited by rote. Some children memorized nursery rhymes, but her father had chosen to educate her differently. She could give the Marshal the entire genealogy of the Princes of Dol Amroth, if he liked. 

Oswin nodded. “And your mother?” 

“Lady Hirwen, daughter of Hador, second son of Halgemir, the late Lord of Lossarnach.” Morwen frowned. She had never thought about how many second sons she had descended from until this moment. Pedigree had never mattered. She still didn’t think it mattered. But then, she wasn’t a crown prince…or a matchmaking uncle, for that matter. That reminded her of Oswin’s rumored collusion with Steward Turgon and she gave the Marshal a sharp look. “I thought you knew all of this already.” 

Marshal Oswin had the decency to look mildly sheepish. “I’m a forgetful old man, you see.” 

Morwen didn’t reply. 

“So you found Prince Thengel utterly objectionable as a husband and with nothing but pity in your heart, you threw him off at the last. And you’ve come to rid the last relic of him from your presence. Ah. Well, I wished to confirm a rumor and find there’s nothing for me to work on.” 

Morwen blinked. How in Arda had he come to that conclusion? Or was he willfully twisting her words? 

“I didn’t say that,” she replied, beginning to feel cornered. He wasn’t understanding her at all. She’d come for the opposite reason! 

The Marshal continued to pace with his hands behind his back. “Then tell me, what are your objections to my hotspur of a nephew?” Oswin said, warming to the topic, “for which of his noble traits would you reject him? His charming temper? His noble stiff neck? His penchant for reading?” 

It didn’t seem like a fair question. “You can hardly expect me to outline his faults to you,” she replied. “And I don’t think reading is a fault.” 

The Marshal smirked. “Whittling down Thengel’s character is an old family pastime of ours." He stopped and stared at the box containing the horn. "Thengel Fengeling has many deficiencies. I merely wondered, for the record, which traits a less partial observer might fall upon.” 

“His deficiencies seemed fairly balanced with his virtues.” It sounded like something diplomatic Adrahil would say. 

Oswin’s wiry eyebrow arched. “Oh, you think so?” 

He chewed on this reflection for a time, weighing what he heard and what was said. Although the silence stretched on, she only thought perhaps he would want to return to his chair if he planned to ruminate over his nephew’s exact relationship to a young Gondorian woman with tangential connections to lords and princes. 

“But you won’t have him,” he said at last. “Or at least he’s persuaded to believe you won’t — and vice versa.” 

Morwen swallowed hard, beginning to feel confused about who had rejected whom. Her tongue felt dry and the right words were hard to find. Oswin’s mind moved faster than hers, lighting from thought to meaning before she could puzzled it out herself. 

“Wait a moment, please. I’ve only said we are not betrothed, not that I didn’t wish to be or that it could never come to be. You see, Marshal,” she said haltingly. It felt odd to admit something like this to a near stranger. “I love him, but…” 

“Love him?” Oswin stared at her causing Morwen to blush despite herself. Then he slowly rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. 

“Not really,” Morwen replied, causing storm clouds to form once more over Oswin’s face. “Thengel has no idea. He ran off like an idiot and I need your help — particularly with that noble stiff neck of his, as you put it. I’ve come all this way to ask a favor of you.” 

“And what is that?” 

“Lady Idhren told me that Thengel intends to meet you before your journey north.”

“Yes.” 

"Would you remind Thengel, from me, that he promised to visit Imloth Melui again." 

Oswin’s expression cleared a little. "I will, Lady Morwen. But how will that help?”

“It will make all the difference. I can’t go to Ithilien and I can’t reach him there by letter in order to explain.”

His lips twitched as he contained a grin. “Is there nothing else I can do? I could simply tell him…” 

“No, you mustn’t tell him anything. You know what he’ll do.” 

“Yes,” said Oswin darkly. “Even as a boy learning to ride his first pony I had to tell him to go in the opposite direction I intended. It’s the contrary Fengling blood.”

Morwen believed it. And that’s why she wanted only the most minimal message conveyed. If Thengel could see her now, going over his head to treat with his uncle, she suspected he might just chuck something at her for a change. One of his boots, perhaps. 

He shrugged. “Well, if that’s all you want, it’s easily done.” 

“You must remind him to keep his promise. That’s the sticking point. He did promise. Then leave the rest to me.”

“And then you think you can handle him?” 

“Yes, I think so.” If Ferneth’s observations could be trusted, then certainly. Morwen tucked her hair behind her ear. “There is one other thing, Marshal.” 

“Yes?” 

“It’s Guthere, you see. If you recall my mentioning that he’s in love with my cook…” 

Oswin looked rebellious. “Lady Morwen, I came to Gondor to get my nephew a wife, not his guard,” he said tartly. 

Morwen rose and followed him to the other side of the chair. “Yes, and I’m at your service on that score. I’ll make sure your nephew gets a wife, but I have conditions.”

“Oh yes?” 

“Yes. Guthere stays with me.” 

“What on Middle-earth do you want with Guthere?” Oswin snapped, not taking kindly to someone quibbling over his men. “As I said—”

Morwen stiffened her spine. After all, this was just as much about her happiness as it was for Hareth’s and Guthere’s. “A princess needs an honor guard, doesn’t she?” 

Oswin’s mouth snapped shut. Morwen could even hear his teeth click together. 

Morwen held out her hand. “Consider this an official declaration. If Thengel wants Guthere back and the…what did you call it? The horn, I mean.” 

“The heortgifu?” 

“Yes, the heortgifu, he’d better just come and claim them.” 

He scowled at her tone, yet Morwen thought she detected a dim glow of amusement behind the Marshal’s eyes. Or was it mischief? 

“Am I hearing correctly that you intend to hold the horn and my warrior hostage?” 

Morwen tried to smother a smirk. “The horse, the rider, and the horn. Yes.”

“Is that all?” he asked dryly. “Have you no other conditions?” 

Morwen glanced up at the ceiling, thinking. “Well, it’s a start.” 

The Marshal finally shook her hand. “I don’t normally negotiate in a hostage situation, but I’ll make an exception here.” 

Morwen felt something like elation as she shook Oswin’s hand. After all, she had just negotiated an alliance…or a conspiracy…or something. Probably Morwen had not carried it off with the same polish and skill as the Lady Idhrens of the world, but she had time to improve on the craft. Nor would it be the last round of give and take between the Marshal and herself in the foreseeable future, she reckoned. 

Then she bit her lip as reality settled back on her shoulders.

“What’s the matter?” Oswin asked. 

“Suppose it doesn’t work?” 

“If we ally ourselves with this common goal we’ll have little chance of failure, my girl,” Oswin answered. “You’ll come again tomorrow of course,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “We need to strategize how best to direct my nephew.” 

“I’m sorry, Marshal, I planned to return to Lossarnach tomorrow. I have business from the Steward…” 

Oswin waved her objection away. “Turgon’s business can wait a day. Béma knows he delayed mine long enough, letting Thengel have the run of the country.” He gave her an authoritative look and she began to understand Thengel’s position on his uncle. “Delay a little while. You’ll stay for supper tonight, of course. I’ll lean on you to accept my hospitality. After all, I have a right to know my new niece better.” 

Niece! Morwen hadn’t thought of that. And she supposed Oswin would be the one to represent her to the King and Queen of the Mark — if her plotting succeeded. 

And it hadn’t. Not yet. 

…

AN: heortgifu = heart gift, betrothal present.


	42. Anorien

Morning mists crept to the roots of the Druadan trees, curled upward and dissipated while to the east, the pink fingers of dawn spread into the river valley. Thengel reined in his borrowed mount, having spotted his quarry, a circle of dripping tents huddled near the gray wood. The dark forms of quiet men moved between them or bent over small cooking fires. His squire appeared to lead the horse away before he dismounted. With a nod, Cenhelm and the rest followed the lad.

Wynflaed squatted before a small fire away from the rest, busy with a smoking kettle and a pan sitting on a crude iron rack perched between rocks over the fire. He sat down next to her with the woods to their backs, appreciating the smell of coffee and hot bacon fat wafting into the damp air.

His sister acknowledged him with a wipe of her nose on the back of her sleeve. Thengel saw her last in Minas Tirith over a month ago. They'd finalized their plans to meet Oswin's camp in the Anorien valley and then he'd made his way to Ithilien for a much needed retreat.

"You're late," she muttered.

"I know. The rain delayed us."

"Never mind," Wynflaed grumbled. "Oswin's not here yet either. He's more than a week late."

He gave her a puzzled look. "You didn't come together?"

She shook her head. "He had to finish up some talks with Lord Turgon, so I led the camp out of the Pelennor before I died of boredom."

Thengel squinted across the foggy valley toward the direction Ecthelion and his men had disappeared hours ago. His mind's eye followed along the line of the river where they'd parted at the sister fort overlooking Cair Andros from the western banks of the Anduin.

Wynflaed passed him a steaming dish of coffee. Then she used a rag to lift the pan off the fire and let the bacon cool on the bank of rocks surrounding the little pit she'd dug.

"I wish I'd known that. What's keeping him?"

Wynflaed shrugged. "Turgon, probably. Leave it to the Gondorians to drag out business of any kind. Besides, it's not exactly a hop and a skip from the city to Druedan forest."

"It's only fifty miles of good road, give or take," Thengel pointed out. "Ecthelion and I had to creep through thickets and muddy ravines just to get to the river, let alone cross it in a spring flood. We had to spend two nights on Cair Andros before we could make it over to the western side."

Wynflaed's brows furrowed. "Where's Ecthelion now? I thought he meant to send off Bard's men," she asked around crunching on a piece of slightly burnt bacon.

"Ecthelion meant to, but he had some news at Cair Andros. Now he's making a beeline for Minas Tirith."

"Bad news?"

Thengel smirked. "No, just very surprising news." Then he frowned. "If he'd come with me to the camp like he originally planned, I could've sent him on to give Oswin a shove out the door."

"Maybe he's not feeling well."

"Oswin is indestructible, you know that," Thengel quipped.

"That's what we'd all like to think, isn't it? What will we do when he's not around, do you think?"

Thengel shrugged. He preferred not to dwell on the reality of his aging uncle. Oswin had to outlast Fengel, that's all there was to it. Much as he grumbled about his uncle's methods, the house of Eorl wouldn't have weathered Fengel's reign without Oswin.

"Will you ride with us all the way to the border?"

Thengel snatched a piece of bacon since Wyn didn't offer him one. "Close enough to give Fengel palpitations. Maybe I'll dip my toe in the Glanhír when Oswin isn't looking."

"The Mering." Wynflaed grunted. "Are you certain that's wise? Oswin might not be looking, but as a shieldmaiden of Rohan, I'd be obliged to shoot you on sight."

Thengel shrugged. "Is that the order? Huh. I'd never heard. As you are a shieldmaiden, I will consider myself dually warned." He held out his mug for more coffee. "That reminds me. What's it I hear about you're abandoning post to travel to Esgaroth?"

"Oh, that." Her eyes flicked to where Rurik and Frar were debating the quality of a trinket the young man had purchased in Minas Tirith. They settled on the younger man with something like possessiveness. "I'm following a whim."

Thengel shook his head, thinking of the way Idhren had thrown the two together at that feast. His friend had been on point all evening, he realized.

"He's a lot younger than you."

She snorted. "Says you."

"Just making an observation." He cast her a sidelong glance. "What about your vow?"

Wynflaed puffed at a stand of hair that fell in her face. "I'm not breaking it, if that's what you mean. I'm just not one to translate shieldmaiden too literally."

Thengel smirked. "And what sort of diplomatic flap will seducing King Bard's nephew cause for Rohan, I wonder?"

"None, I expect, once news of your betrothal reaches Edoras. I'll only be too happy to be on my way to Lake-town when it does."

Thengel's eyes snapped away from Wynflaed's toward the empty plain. "You plan to be gone that long?"

"How long do you plan to keep Morwen waiting?" she challenged.

Thengel took his time answering while he scraped the mud off his boot with a stick lying nearby.

"I'm not going to ask Morwen to marry me, Wynflaed."

"Don't be stupid. Have you had a change of heart?"

"About Morwen? No."

Thengel poured himself a third cup of coffee so he wouldn't have to look at his sister while memories of his last vision of Morwen drifted into his thoughts. What had possessed her to run out of her house in that flimsy shift? He could see the line of stitches above her hip through the gauzy material and more beside. It was the 'more beside' that had caused him to be so gruff with her on parting and which haunted him during unguarded moments in Ithilien. The desire it evoked had shaken his resolve to leave her alone in peace to enjoy the life he had saved for her. He hadn't given back her hand so that he could hold the rest of her in his arms. Had he.

What would he do now without Morwen in his life? He could imagine year after year of her walking toward him with blossoms in her hair, glowing from within with that passion for her work and her homeplace. She possessed that mix of strength and uncertainty of a young person coming of age and discovering her world and all the promise in it. Thengel didn't want to miss out on that. And yet. He wanted her but he wanted her to have the life intended for her — which could not involve him.

"Not a change of heart, per se, but you know Morwen is not for me."

"That's more than I know." Wynflaed studied his profile with an inscrutable expression, which he caught as he briefly glanced he way. "Time will tell. As I said, I don't want to be in Edoras when they announce your betrothal."

Thengel contemplated the steam rising from his cup for a while. "You think Fengel would take it badly if it ever came to be?"

"You're damned if you do and damned if you don't. At least Father's consistent. He hates everything you do."

"Thanks," Thengel muttered.

"Mother would be pleased. She likes to pretend you have a perfect little life here. It helps her deal with not watching you grow up."

Thengel bowed his head and fell quiet for a time.

"She's going to wish she could be here on your wedding day. If there ever is one."

"Fengel would never allow it," Thengel said through gritted teeth.

Wynflaed shrugged. "Probably not."

He felt the usual tremor in his hands whenever his temper flared. "How does she put up with him?" he groused.

Wynflaed gave him an incredulous frown. "You always idealized Mother. Did it ever occur to you that she knew what she was doing when she married Father?"

He pulled a face. "That's one way to disillusion me forever."

"Consider also that Morwen knows too."

Thengel drained his mug and set it on the ground by his feet. Then he rose. "What is keeping Oswin?"

On the third morning since he arrived at the forest eaves, Wynflaed dashed into Thengel's tent just as he started pulling a fresh tunic over his head. If she had come a moment or two earlier, she would have caught him with his trousers down.

"Béma, Wyn—"

"Oswin's here," she said, breathless. "Watch out. He's wearing his marshal face and he's headed this way."

Despite his thirty-seven years, Thengel felt some of the blood drain from his own face and hastily dressing. Before Wynflaed could back out, Oswin pushed his way inside the cramped tent. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest and glowered at his sister's offspring.

"Wynflaed, out," he finally barked.

"Happily, Uncle." She had ducked halfway between the flaps already.

Thengel slipped into his boots. "You're late—"

"Where is the heirloom I left in your keeping?"

Thengel's mouth snapped shut, racking his brains till he recalled what his uncle meant. The horn? He'd forgotten…

Righteous anger made the Marshal seem to swell to twice his size. "You left a priceless treasure in that benighted southern fief where you had carried it without my permission. Are there any other discarded items you wish to tell me about before I have to face Fengel King with an explanation?"

Thengel swallowed. "My comb?"

Oswin cuffed him upside the head.

Thengel cupped the back of his head with his hand. "Ow! Béma."

"Upstart. You'd better go get that horn," he said, already turning away from Thengel to make his exit.

Oswin disappeared through the tent flap. Thengel stared at the blank canvas for a moment before belting his trousers and grabbing his saddle bag. He followed his uncle outside into the morning sunlight. Spotting his squire, he tossed the bags at the boy and made signs for his horse. Then he caught up with Oswin.

"You mean you don't have it?" he asked when he caught up. "Uncle?"

Oswin turned from giving orders to his men to strike camp.

"Of course I haven't got it. It's still in the possession of that impertinent young woman."

Thengel's jaw went slack for a moment. "Morwen!"

"It alarms me that you can identify her by that description alone," Oswin groused. "That's the sort of woman you've take up with, is it? That's the woman I'm to bend my knee to in future?"

Thengel tamped down any number of retorts, suddenly aware that the ear of the camp had bent toward his uncle and himself. He lowered his voice. "Don't get ahead of yourself. I haven't taken up with anybody. I carried the horn with me to Lossarnach and forgot it, that's all. How did you find out?"

Oswin sniffed. "I may have encountered this so called person in Minas Tirith."

"Morwen went to Minas Tirith? Why?"

"I believe she had business with the Steward…seeing as how our carefully laid plans went to nought."

Thengel felt alarm like ice water in his veins. "What does Turgon have planned for her now?"

Oswin shrugged. "Search me. I've no interest in the young woman apart from the horn. And you had better go straighten things out, get those ideas of grandeur out of her head."

"Grandeur?"

"Yes. You put this idea of marriage to a prince in her head."

"But…"

"Now that I've seen her, she's completely unsuitable for a princess. You need a wife, not a cutthroat."

Unsuitable! Cutthroat! Was the man an idiot? The ice water in his veins began to heat to a low grade boil. "So she tell you she had the horn in her keeping?"

"Keeping?" Oswin blustered. "This is a hostage situation."

Even the most grim-faced of Oswin's warriors were showing an avid interest in the debate between the Marshal and the Prince as they passed around them with packs and collapsed tents wrapped in oil skins. Thengel felt aware of them in the periphery of his senses, but the majority of his brain chugged painfully to translate the meaning of his uncle's words.

"What does that mean?"

"Go and ask her yourself. She'll tell you exactly what it all means. Béma knows I've been subjected to all manner of high-handed behavior from that young person." He began ticking off instances on his fingers with exaggerated relish, "I've had my methods criticized, listened to the family scrutinized, my warriors purloined, and now I've been reduced to a mere messenger! Here."

Then Oswin dug in his pocket and pressed an envelope against Thengel's chest before stumping away. Thengel caught the paper before it fell to the ground. Distracted by the falling letter, he missed Oswin allowing himself a grin as he turned away from his puzzled nephew.

"What's this?" Thengel called.

"Just forwarding your mail," Oswin grumbled over his shoulder.

Thengel looked at the envelope, then carefully broke the seal and read. Containing only two lines, still a light appeared in his eyes. Only two lines, but they doomed and encouraged him.

"This is from Morwen. How long have you had it? It's dated from May and you give it to me now?"

"And which forwarding address did you wish it squirreled away to in that dratted forest?" Oswin retorted. "If you'd stayed in Minas Tirith like I told you to, you might have had that letter sooner and seen her for yourself instead of subjecting me to her whims."

Thengel clamped his mouth shut as his temper mounted to new heights. Not only had his uncle seen Morwen, he'd spoken to her, saying all manner of who knows what.

"Well?" Thengel demanded.

"Well what?"

"Is she well? Is she still in Minas Tirith?" Did she mention him?

"Is she well?" The Marshal enunciated each word, his voice rising in pitch. "Is Oswin well, that's the question! I've had my arm twisted behind my back by a stripling girl and you ask if she is well. And you," he jabbed a finger at Thengel, "you've made a fine mess of things. I expect you to resolve this situation before it ends in a diplomatic flap."

"A what?"

"She says to keep your promise if you ever want to see the horn or your guard again. Now what kind of position does that put me in?" Oswin's voice dipped into a low vibrato. "This could mean war, Thengel, if the horn of Eorl isn't returned to the family."

War? On Lossarnach? Thengel rolled his eyes while Oswin mounted his horse. "She told you that? Verbatim? That she's holding my guard and the horn hostage?" he asked skeptically. It wasn't possible.

"Well, I'm paraphrasing. The gist, Thengel, is to get that horn back. As for Guthere," he sniffed as he walked on, "I've permanently reassigned him to the princess's honor guard, on her insistence."

Thengel stared while several emotions fought for dominance. "Whose honor guard?"

Oswin glared at him over his shoulder. "You heard me. The princess's. I'm sending you a replacement."

"Then is Guthere going to Lake-town with Wynflaed?" he asked when he caught up. "Uncle?"

He regarded Thengel through glacial blue eyes. "Wynflaed? No."

Thengel scratched his chin, looking around for any sight of the rider. "Then he's going back with you to Fritha? But you just said Morwen had him—"

"What in Béma's name does Fritha want with Guthere? All she does is weave all day. Where's the danger in that?"

"Then who could you possibly mean? Fritha's daughters?" Thengel pivoted on his heels to look around the camp. "Is Guthere even here?"

Oswin planted his hands on his hips. "Of course he's not here. I've just told you he's been reassigned to this Morwen of yours."

Thengel's jaw dropped. "But you said you've assigned him to the princess's honor guard."

"Yes. On her insistence." Then Oswin gave him another black look. "She seems to think some sort of protection is due to a crown princess."

Thengel paused and glowered, beginning to understand his uncle's methods. Oswin might blame Morwen, but this whole thing smacked of the Marshal's scheming. Restore the horn to the family? Yes, and he thought he knew by what means Oswin meant for him to do so, no matter what he said against Morwen. Thengel had fallen for that, just as he had as a boy whenever they went out riding. Turn left when he meant for Thengel to turn right. Well. He'd made his mistake informing Thengel about Guthere. Thengel's better principles were already in place, as far as any marriage to Morwen stood.

"I see," he asked through gritted teeth.

"You'd better just." Oswin turned back again. "And if I were you, Thengel, I'd choose another time for Fengling contrariness."

Thengel took several deep breaths to quiet the thoughts flying through his brain. Oswin's man brought his horse and he watched the Marshal mount. How long had Oswin been here? A quarter of an hour? What a peaceful camp this had been just a few moments before Oswin had come along to throw this bag of cats on his lap.

Thengel's squire led up Rochagar, who had been brought by Oswin's men. The saddlebags were already attached. He reached for the reins and began to mount as well.

"And where do you think you're going?" Oswin barked.

"With you," Thengel groused.

"No you're not. I'm for home. You're for Lossarnach."

"Is that a direct order?" he asked.

"Order?" Oswin repeated. By the light in his uncle's eyes, Thengel realized too late that his uncle had been laying down a snare and that he had stepped right into it. "You're bound by your own promise, sister-son."


	43. Hotspur & Steelsheen

Morwen sat alone in the library. On the desk before her, papers lay spread out on top of one another like autumn leaves in a field. Some were letters and lists sent from the Warden of the Houses of Healing, others were sketches of green houses and garden beds. She would carry these to Ferneth for one last round of approvals soon.

She leaned deeply into her father's chair and rubbed her eyes. They felt dry as old onion skins from long reading. Before her life had taken a sudden administrative turn, she would have been in the orchard now with the sun toasting the back of her neck or in the yard with Beldir combing over the crates of fruit being shipped to Arnach. In truth, they didn't need her presence as much as she wanted them to need it. Everyone had come back to work as soon as Halmir's men vacated the property. With the promise of new income and fewer trees, they were keeping up under Beldir's direction. But who else would do the paperwork?

Morwen glanced around the room. At first she had not minded the emptiness of the library. It provided a break from the constant attention she gave to the members of her household, providing solitude to think over the strange turns her life had taken in the last year since Randir's death, particularly since the spring. Not long ago, Gildis and Hareth were squirreling away her mourning clothes behind her back in preparation for Lossemeren. She had believed, incorrectly, that she had survived the greatest change of her life in losing her father. The trees and the wind had had other ideas about that. And so had Halmir.

Relief soon turned to restlessness and solitude had taught Morwen nothing about herself which she didn't already know. Not for the first time that afternoon, her eyes alighted on the shelf above the little hearth where Gildis has moved the Horn of Eorl, which had been left behind in Thengel's haste and then returned once again after her trip to Minas Tirith. Morwen flexed her fingers, then clenched them where they lay on the armrest. This was the hand that Thengel had given back, had given her freedom of choice. Now that she had chosen, time would tell if her accomplice would succeed in his mission in Anorien.

A knock at the door disturbed her circular revery. Guthere stepped inside. Nanneth had thrown away the last dressing weeks ago and his hair had begun to grow in, save for the stubborn tonsure-like patch surrounding the injured scalp. He looked odd, but she had grown used to him.

He shuffled over to the desk when she beckoned him. He had a cloth in his hands which he must have used to wipe away the garden dirt before he came inside. His fingers worked over the shabby fabric and she recognized a case of nerves.

"Is something the matter, Guthere?"

"Well, Lady Morwen," he answered. "I think you'd better step outside."

Morwen reached the yard just as a tall, green-clad figure shut the pasture gate, his back to her. She felt the thump of recognition in her chest. Thengel turned at her approach and seemed glued to the gate once he noticed her. He remained there like a vagabond unsure of his welcome or perhaps willing her to come to him.

She went, passing blindly between boys and girls carrying bushel baskets of fruit from the orchard to be stored away until the carts came ahead of market day.

Cenhelm remained in the sun-filled pasture with their horses, Morwen saw as she drew nearer. He dipped his head in greeting when he caught her looking at him. And then she reached Thengel's side. At first she felt at a loss for how to begin. He watched her but didn't seem inclined to speak, which didn't help until she realized that he might actually be subject to shyness. After what they had experienced together, the thought nearly made her laugh.

"Welcome back to Imloth Melui, Prince Thengel." She dipped into a low curtsey. "This is a surprise."

Thengel's lips tremored almost imperceptibly as he tried to contain either nerves or amusement. "Is it, Lady Morwen?" he said, matching her formal tone.

Morwen ignored the question. "You must be thirsty after traveling on the dusty road all day. Allow me to send my man for a glass of something for you. Guthere," she called.

Guthere appeared from the side of the house. He looked ready to swallow his tongue for his role in the conspiracy against the prince. Shuffling forward, he kept his head bowed.

"Ask Hareth to have some of the cherry juice for Prince Thengel and Cenhelm."

"Yes, my lady." Guthere blushed to his roots, gave his former charge an alarmed look, bowed, and disappeared around the house toward the kitchen door.

Morwen turned back to Thengel with a benign smile as if she hadn't just flaunted his old guard in front of him. His own expression proved harder to interpret, understandably, given the difficulty of trying to glare and conceal laughter at the same time. Morwen's head went a little giddy with the pleasure of seeing him off kilter for once, after the merry-go-round he had put her through in May.

"Are you well, Prince Thengel? You look like you need to sneeze," she teased as she felt inside her sleeve for a clean linen.

"I'm fine," Thengel muttered. Then he added, "You know he's a warrior not a footman."

"Yes, I agree," Morwen replied playfully. "Which is why I've sent him to guard you against thirst. You see it's a very real danger, especially in summer. Dehydration can lead to all manner of complaints. Lightheadedness or a loss of appetite, for example."

"Or headaches."

"I believe that is a symptom of being struck by a tree," Morwen replied.

Despite his efforts to appear grim, Thengel looked down and grinned at his boots in defeat. "As you say."

Morwen watched him with growing satisfaction. "Now, my lord, are you passing through to Arnach again?"

"I doubt I would be welcome."

She smiled and shook her head. "By Ferneth you would be very welcome. I hope Hundor won't get under your feet too much in Ithilien once he's released — and assuming hard labor doesn't kill him."

Morwen had been teasing, but he looked at her gravely. "My work in Ithilien is done for some time now. It has also been brought to my attention that my other duties are somewhat lacking," he told her.

"It has been an improving season for you," she noted.

"If you like," he replied with a mock bow. "As for Hundor, he will have Ecthelion's feet to worry about soon enough. The Lord of Gondor's armies wears studded boots."

"So does his wife, I think. Will you come into the house?" Morwen stepped along side of him.

Thengel glanced suspiciously at the front doors as if suspecting some hidden trap within. Did he suspect that if he entered her house, he'd share a similar fate to Guthere's? Wise man.

"Not just yet." Noticing the faces of Morwen's workers all staring, he said, "Perhaps you might show me this new structure here."

Morwen followed his line of sight toward the house to the makeshift lean-to Beldir had constructed from the first set of the Warden's plans. While it hadn't taken long to build, the structure looked far from permanent. Being summer, Beldir left all sides but the one abutting the house open. By autumn it would be replaced with something sturdier and fully enclosed.

"The nursery, you mean," she said. "Come with me."

They passed Hareth coming from the direction of the kitchen garden with two glasses in her hand. She appeared red-faced and her hair frizzling an extra inch in any given direction. Probably the result of nerves, Morwen thought, despite the near guarantee she had given the couple that the danger of separation had passed. She decided to ignore the implied doubt in her capabilities.

Thengel accepted his drink in silent bemusement as Hareth nearly ran in search of Cenhelm, to whom the other glass was destined. The cook didn't stay long enough for Thengel to either thank her or pronounce doom.

Morwen touched his sleeve to remind him of their destination. She led him inside the shelter. Soil-filled boxes covered a row of makeshift tables made of boards and hobbyhorses. Here and there a seedling had broken through the dirt to the free air. Morwen bent over these and whispered encouragements and tested the moisture of the soil with her fingers while Thengel sipped his drink, bemused.

"What are you growing here?"

Thengel stood closer than she realized and her arm brushed his when she stood up. "The next generation of Hyarnustar golds." She smiled up at him. "These seedlings here were found by Beldir between the stumps of the fallen trees. We usually weed these out. We'll plant them again when they've grown enough to avoid trampling. What you can't see are the seeds given to me by the Warden."

"How did the Warden have your apple seeds?"

"From my father, actually. He donated them to the seed library back when the Warden and Headmaster first conceived it. Thank goodness. We won't be as behind as I feared."

"When did you learn of this?"

"In Minas Tirith. Lord Turgon arranged it with the Warden to partner with Bar-en-Ferin for their botanical gardens. I'd forgotten about my father's contribution, but as we combed over their seed collection, there they were. The Warden let me have some of them."

Thengel gave her a sidelong glance. "Is that what Turgon summoned you for?"

When Morwen nodded, his shoulders relaxed as if she had relieved some anxiety on that point. She wondered about it, but let the subject lie.

"Since then Ferneth and I have been writing back and forth. The Houses of Healing will sublease the land — which offsets the cost for me, a good thing because I am not sure I could afford it for much longer without the full orchard. And this will still be a working farm. Permanent green houses will have to be built. Until then, the Warden and the Headmaster of the Archives wants to send student horticulturists to study the valley," she said with deep satisfaction. "Beldir and Nanneth have both agreed to apprentice the candidates, so they can learn about domestic and wild plants. In exchange, I am going to send Ioneth to Minas Tirith to learn at the Houses of Healing. We need to think of the future of Imloth Melui's families, with Nanneth getting on in years and none of her children showing any interest in taking up her mantle."

He was smiling at her and she stopped. "What is it?" she asked.

"You've warmed to being the lady of the valley, not just Bar-en-Ferin."

Morwen smiled back, glad that he seemed to be warming to her again. "Yes, I have. It turns out I enjoy directing people."

Thengel stifled a snort as he leaned against a sawhorse. He finished his drink and set the glass down. "So, you're satisfied with the outcome here?"

"Satisfied? Maybe." She crossed her arms and looked away into the woods. "It's still a shock, sometimes, when I'm working up on the hill. But I don't feel so badly about the trees now that we have this project. New trees will grow in time. My family will still have a legacy and now all of Gondor will benefit from our work here, not just one man."

"When will all of this take place?"

"Slowly. Funds have to be raised still." She turned a bright smile on him. "I don't suppose that a contribution could be made from the coffers of Ecthelion's favored lieutenant? Or perhaps an official donation from the Crown Prince of Rohan? We'd put your name on a plaque…um, somewhere."

"I think something can be arranged."

An inevitable lull fell in the conversation. Morwen picked up a trowel that had fallen off the makeshift table and hung it back on a nail in the wall, then stepped back to see if all the others tools had made it back to their homes. All the while his eyes catalogued her every move. She could feel it like the sun on her skin.

Morwen took a deep breath, then faced him. "You didn't really travel here to discuss paperwork and seedlings, did you?"

"You know very well I have not."

Morwen's belly flipped. "You're in time to see the roses in the valley. I could use a long walk."

"Are you well enough?" he asked, unsubtly eyeing her side.

"Well enough to climb ladders and fall off of them," she quipped. When he looked alarmed she added, "we had a wet early June. I slipped on a rung and landed gracefully on my backside. It only bruised my ego. Nanneth says the wound is completely sound." She pressed her hand to her side, thoughtful. "I don't even remember what it felt like."

"Not at all?"

"Not clearly. But then, I'd rather forget. And so should you."

Morwen threaded her arm through his and led him out of the lean-to. Rather than guiding Thengel through the orchard to her special door in the wall, she skirted along outside the walls along a thin deer path through the wood eaves.

"Not through the orchard?" he asked.

Morwen shook her head.

"You don't want to be reminded of what happened," he said stiffly. "I don't blame you."

Morwen blinked in surprise as he misunderstood her maneuvering. "Thengel, I live here. As if I could forget it. I only wanted to be alone with you and half the valley's at work in there."

He swallowed. "Oh."

They lapsed into silence as they walked beyond the orchards under the protective arms of ancient beeches were the land rolled into the ridge. The orchard walls and the sounds of people at work fell farther behind until they lost sight and sound of them all together. A lark warbled at them and a breeze gently strummed the treetops. The deer track crossed the path leading to Anorien's well and Morwen steered him onto it. They had not gone far when Thengel stopped dead.

"What is it?"

Roses of many colors grew in walls of pink and white along the path. Delicate five-petaled cups gazed worshipfully at the sun, and at the center, pure gold. More than the eye could count. Thengel breathed in the heady fragrance and let his eyes wander. With no small amount of pride, Morwen watched the changing emotions on his face as the valley outdid itself to impress him. She saw surprise, admiration, longing, peace. Regret?

"What I had taken for mere thickets…." He exhaled as if at a loss for words. "I expected a few bushes here and there, but this…."

"Imloth Melui is famous for its roses for a reason, Thengel. I'm pleased you came back to see them."

He swallowed and let go of her arm. "No wonder you love this place so much."

"I do." She said this rather mournfully. Then, as she already felt a little sad, and what could it possibly hurt to get it out of the way, she said, "You didn't come for so long I though you had forgotten your promise."

Thengel shook his head, as if to clear a fog from his mind. "I did not forget."

"Then why put off the visit?"

"I doubted if the promise was wisely made."

"But why?"

"Can't you guess, Morwen?" He waved a hand at the roses. "Because of all this. And, given the circumstances, people will have ideas about us."

"People are allowed to have ideas and we are allowed be unmoved by them," she answered with an imperious shake of her head.

He watched her curiously, as if trying to understand her meaning. Morwen walked on, irritation quickening her pace. She hadn't brought him here to increase his regrets, but to entice him by what she had to offer. Stubborn Fengling ingrate, or whatever Oswin had called him.

"Besides, I don't see how this particular idea should offend," she hazarded when he caught up with her. "It didn't offend me when your uncle asked me to confirm the rumor."

Thengel paused and stopped her too with his hand on her arm. "Oswin asked you to confirm this rumor?"

"Yes, he did," she told him boldly. "I went to see him, as you know." She didn't bother to try to sound concerned. "He thought we were promised to one another. Apparently everyone in Minas Tirith is under the same impression still."

Thengel stared blindly down the trail. "But I never told him so."

"You left the Horn of Eorl on my mantelpiece. That I still had it in my possession he seemed to think significant. That, and your friend Idhren has a talent for speaking things into existence."

Thengel seemed to want to say something in reply, but could not think of the right words. Then he asked, not quite looking at her, "So. The idea, the rumor didn't offend you?"

Morwen turned away to lean over and smell a rose. "Why should it? You are a pleasant person."

"Pleasant?" he parroted, as if he hadn't expected her to word it that way at all. "You once described me as a two-faced orc."

Morwen turned back to him, her eyebrows drifted toward her hairline as he repeated that line back to her. "Well, at the time I thought you were behaving like one," she said in her own defense. "But Marshal Oswin's description is more apt. You are a hotspur."

Thengel scowled. "And that's the sort of person you don't mind having it rumored about that you're betrothed to marry?" He sounded as if he doubted her judgement, even if it was in his favor.

"No fear," Morwen quipped. "But maybe you are afraid of me?"

"No fear," he parroted.

"What then? My lack of position in comparison to yours? Wealth? The language barrier, perhaps?"

Thengel crossed his arms. "No, it's the bit about you're barely old enough to marry someone my age," he replied tersely.

It was her turn to scowl. "I am not a child," she said as she sailed past him, happy to be walking again.

"No, but I have not been a child since long before you became a child," he called.

Morwen did not immediately reply while he caught up with her again. When they were shoulder to shoulder, she spoke at last.

"Do you recall in the book of Númenórean history that you borrowed from my father's library that Tar-Aldarion was seventy-one years older than Erendis, his wife? What's seventeen years to that?"

Thengel looked askance.

"Yes, I read it while you were away," she answered the unspoken question. "You left it sitting out and I had some free time while my wound healed."

"They had a troubled end," Thengel pointed out. "Not exactly the model for a happy marriage."

"They were self-centered." She shrugged. "They never shared the same story. But here we are and you've already fallen into mine."

They walked in silence, each with their own thoughts. Or doubts. Then the corners of Morwen's lips curled upward just a little.

"You did return to Imloth Melui," she observed with satisfaction, "despite your doubts."

Thengel looked at her, helpless. "I promised."

"And you always keep your word," she chanted. "You're a fine old fellow, Thengel. Very polite."

Morwen laughed softly at the crestfallen expression on his face. "You're the one who keeps harping on the age difference. Not me."

"Old fellow. Polite. Huh," he scoffed. "What a saucebox you're turning out to be."

"Nonsense. I'm very pleasant myself."

"Most of the time," he grumbled. "My men have started to call you Steelsheen."

"Steelsheen! One day you will have to explain that to me."

"Easy. She is the kind of high-handed young woman who goes around a man's back and tells his uncle that she's permanently reassigning his body guard to her own person and who refuses to return his personal affects."

Morwen bit the inside of her cheek as she watched him. "You don't say? Am I such a one?"

"Morwen Steelsheen," he said sternly, "You know better than anyone what you've been up to since I left. Isn't that why you paraded him in front of me earlier?"

Her eyes flashed with humor and pique. "Well, you weren't using him. Poor Guthere was dumped on my doorstep like an abandoned child. It's only natural for us to adopt him. Besides," she sniffed, "it's not as if I'm taking him out of the family."

"No?" he growled.

"No, Thengel. There is one point," she said, solemn where she had been playful before, "which we have not discussed." He looked at her, wondering. "Are people's ideas about us true — no matter what we might persuade ourselves to think?"

Now he really looked at her. "What do you say?"

"I think you need me," she said frankly. "I think you need a place like Bar-en-Ferin. A home. To really settle in somewhere and belong."

Thengel's gaze roamed fitfully up into the trees, before returning to her face. "I can't belong anywhere on this side of the mountains, Morwen. So why would a young woman like you look at a man like me when you know how my story will end?"

"Because you are generous and kind. At least, that's how it began. And when my cousin treated me like a commodity rather than a person, you upheld my dignity and returned my choices." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "There were moments when you were not so kind and I think I understand why. But I hope you've learned better than to try to keep me at arms length now. Just who do you mean to protect anyway?"

He opened his mouth but closed it again just as quickly as she exposed his methods.

"Morwen, you've seen so little of the world or the people in it. There are other men for you to know."

Now Morwen crossed her arms and had just enough presence of mind not to tap her foot impatiently. She hadn't reckoned talking someone into marriage could provoke one so.

"You should have thought of that before you came back," she said wryly. "We're past possibilities now. Aren't we?"

The world was a wide place. Morwen had managed to ignore that for the first twenty years of her life. It was odd how one fallen tree could undo all her unknowing. Odder still how it didn't seem to matter.

"You aren't going to give Guthere back?" he asked.

"No. Nor the horn."

Thengel exhaled. "I see. And you really twisted Oswin's arm?"

"He didn't put up a fight."

Thengel shook his head as if trying to reconcile his thoughts with this emerging side of Morwen.

Together they walked on in silence. Something grew between them as they walked together in the quiet afternoon. It made her feel like crying, though she didn't know why. It both filled her with hope and it hurt her. Looking at the wild roses, she though that something irrevocable had happened, an unstoppable chain of events that shook her certain future to the foundation. Only it had happened so long ago that there never was a chance of stopping it now, like a road that had run on ahead of them and wouldn't let them off. Would she trade Bar-en-Ferin after Thengel won it for her - in exchange for an uncouth, northern country where the grasslands came to life?

Perhaps her roots were as shallow as the beech's, because she could countenance the question and feel that the answer she would have given only a few months ago didn't sit right on her lips. Thengel's coming in April had become the first breath of cool northerly wind through the trees, the first frost on the flowers. The sound of hoof beats on the loam would never sound the same to her again. And yet, she would rise to meet it. She loved Bar-en-Ferin, but it wasn't enough.

"I need you to keep borrowing my trouble, Thengel," she said at last. "But it can't be one-sided. I can offer you a home and a family. You don't have to be a wanderer anymore."

"But Morwen—"

She held up her hand. "You said you can't belong anywhere on this side of the mountains. Nonsense. If I've learned anything this past year it's that it doesn't matter where you belong, it's the people you belong to who make a home. When King Fengel's time comes you need to be able to take a piece of that home with you. That is — if you think you could finally tell me the truth."

Thengel stood quietly. She walked a space down the trail before stopping too. She turned and they regarded one another with the distance between them, perhaps taking the measure of the other and weighing costs. Another kind of duel.

And then Morwen understood his stubbornness. He was a strong one, she thought, but here he seemed to lack the courage to claim anything for himself. Or was it too much generosity? He wouldn't ask for a sacrifice. But then, she thought, that wasn't how sacrifices were made.

"No fear," she told him.

He smiled sadly. "It would undo everything we did so you could stay here."

"Yes, it will," she admitted, "but not yet. The valley wouldn't be the greater loss to me."

He studied her eyes, curious. "Are you certain of that?"

"You gave back my hand." She held her upturned fist out between them. "Now it's mine to give wherever I choose."

Morwen unfolded her fingers. Thengel considered it as if it were a flower he wanted within a locked case that belonged to someone else.

"Maybe that's not what you want." She began to withdraw her hand.

Then his own darted forward and snatched it roughly to himself, his whole hand enveloping her own. Her heart hiccuped as the momentum drew her closer to his chest.

She laughed softly, partially in surprise and in triumph. "That's what I thought."

"I love you, Morwen."

Her smile faltered as tenderness overwhelmed her. Finally, the plain truth. "You have shown me that over and over again," she said. "And I love you, though I haven't had as many opportunities to prove it."

"You were behind for so long," he said, "I didn't think you ever could love me back."

"I didn't know." She looked down, for the first time betraying the sadness she felt. "Until you released me." She shook herself and smiled. "So, will you stay in my orchard?"

"Till they call me back," he finally said.

She came to him fully then and he folded her in his arms. His fingers tilted her chin so she had to look at him. His face was grave.

"When Rohan calls, will I go alone? Do you want to be a queen?"

She looked at him in desperation. He had touched upon the one doubt bruising her plans. What did she know about being a queen, much less a queen of Rohan? And yet he seemed the least concerned about this than about taking her away from Imloth Melui.

"You are a champion, Steelsheen. It will be like rescuing Gundor from Beldir, but you've had practice."

"Gundor is learning to hold his own under Guthere's care. We'll learn together," she said truthfully. "You won't go alone."

He had borrowed her trouble, now it was her turn to borrow his. As he kissed her in the half-light, they both prayed the sacrifice was a long way off.


	44. Tying the Knot

April 2943

A sliver of sunlight sneaking in through the gaps in the curtains caught Thengel in the eye, waking him. He turned over, surprised by the pressure against his back. Morwen lay on her side, half curled in on herself, her face obscured by the pillow and her dark hair. Her knees, which had pressed into his lower back, now pressed into his stomach as he reached out and brushed the tangles away from her cheek. 

He never considered himself a late riser, but he quickly learned that sharing a bed with Morwen often meant waking up alone. She’d disappear before sunrise, leaving a little hollow in the mattress for a draft to fill. He didn’t mind if she chose to linger this morning, but he knew she would mind quite a bit. 

Lately Morwen seemed more tired than usual and he’d taken to waking up before her. Probably the work in the orchard and the extra projects from the Houses of Healing were catching up with her as the spring weather improved and the daylight hours increased. Last night had run long with entertaining the wedding guests who had arrived. 

“Morwen,” he whispered. “Wake up. It’s the big day.” 

She mumbled into the pillows, but didn’t stir otherwise. 

“I didn’t catch what you said.” 

“Gildis…leave my brows…” 

Thengel glanced at over her shoulder at the wall in case an interpretation might manifest there. It didn’t. He laced his fingers through hers. 

“Sorry, love, I still missed it.” 

Slowly, with concentrated effort, Morwen cracked open one eyelid. He smiled encouragingly at her. She glowered. 

“Good morning.” 

“Mmph.” 

Thengel leaned over and kissed her, pressing her from her side onto her back, deeper into the mattress. He enjoyed not having to track her down in the orchard if he wanted to give her a good morning kiss while the dogs barked at him. 

Morwen’s fingers laced into the hair on the back of his neck as slowly she responded to him. After a moment, he rolled back on his side, choosing a piece of her hair that had fallen over her breast to twine around his finger. 

“I don’t want to get up,” she mumbled blindly. 

“I know, Morwen, but then you’ll miss the wedding. We can’t disappoint everyone when they’ve come all this way for it,” he reasoned. 

“Mm hm.” But she closed her eyes again and settled deeper into the pillow. 

“Morwen…” he smoothed his hand along the sheets draped over her waist, resting his palm on her hip. She shivered and pulled the sheet up to her throat. “We’ll be disgraced if we don’t turn up for the wedding.” 

“Whose idea was this anyway?” she grumbled. 

“Yours,” he answered. “I told Guthere just to throw Hareth over the saddle and go. You wanted to give her a proper Lossemeren send off.”

Fortunately, she hadn’t demanded the same for herself. He’d married her in February in Merethrond at Turgon’s and Oswin’s insistence and then spent the month in Minas Tirith when she wasn’t much needed in the orchard.

She yawned. “It’s very unkind of you to remind me of that when I’m so sleepy.” 

“If you wake up, you won’t be sleepy.” 

Morwen made another disgruntled sound. He decided to attack her weakest flank. It was for her own good, after all. He’d rather lounge around with her all morning too, but they had a duty. 

“Come on, Steelsheen. For Guthere.” 

Morwen opened both eyes. “Oh fine,” she sighed. “Poor man.” She threw off the covers and sat up, finally noticing the streams of light on the bedclothes. 

“It’s past sun up!” she cried, shaking off the last remnants of drowsiness. 

Thengel chuckled. “I knew you’d catch on eventually.” 

She slid off her side of the bed, scrambling to her feet. “I’m late! Beldir will have all the tables loaded up but I’m not even dressed.” 

No, she wasn’t, Thengel observed with complacence. 

Her gray eyes upbraided him. “You let me sleep in again.” 

“Hm?” 

In a dark recess of Thengel’s mind, he recognized that he was being falsely accused, but in truth, he hadn’t been listening closely at all. Morwen gave him a look as she threw on a robe she found on the floor. She flung open their bedroom door and found Gildis standing on the library side with her arm poised to knock. The housekeeper managed to look at the bed without actually seeing anything. Thengel wondered how she managed it. 

“Ah, my lady, I’ve come to clean you up, but eh…” 

“Don’t mind me,” he told her, sitting up with the sheets carefully arranged around his naked waist. “I’m getting up too.” 

Gildis picked her way gingerly to Morwen’s dressing closet so she was out of Thengel’s view. Morwen followed her, trailing the ties of her robe on the ground behind her, leaving the closet door ajar. 

“Gildis, how could you let me sleep so late?” 

Thengel shook his head, just imagining the look of long suffering on the housekeeper’s face. He and Gildis had spent the last two months dancing around each other in their respective and disparate roles in Morwen’s bedchamber. Gildis hadn’t quite gotten used to finding him there since he’d moved in at the beginning of March. She tended not to come now unless Morwen called for her. Always adjustments. 

“Because I’ve been cornered by Princess Wynflaed again,” he heard her complain to Morwen while he sought out his own clothes. “She says she’ll feel more at home if we could get the chimney to smoke inside her room.” 

Morwen’s laughter drifted out to him from the closet. 

Speaking of adjustments, he thought grimly, he’d have to get used to once again living under the same roof with his sister, upon Morwen’s insistence. What she expected to learn about being queen from a shieldmaiden, he didn’t know. Wynflaed hardly counted as a cultural expert. Morwen would do better to shadow Idhren, but his wife hadn’t warmed to the idea for some reason. 

Thengel crossed to the wardrobe and found the outfit appointed for him yesterday by authorities on the matter. He had the tunic over his head just as a sound of revolt set his teeth on edge. 

“Gildis, I can’t wear that dress now,” Morwen protested. “I have to help set up.” 

“You are not carrying tables, Princess Morwen.” 

It was the new story now. Everyone had an opinion about what sort of princess Morwen ought to be. Sensing the argument would expand to require him to choose sides sooner rather than later, Thengel snatched his boots and his comb and then tiptoed toward the library. He had a different duty that morning and he couldn’t delay it to settle disputes.   
…

 

 

Thengel arrived in the orchard with Wynflaed, Cenhelm and Thurstan at his heels. They parted ways in the crowd. He found Morwen already assembled with their guests, who were waiting in front of the dais for the ceremony to begin. 

She spoke to Adrahil and Aranel with her back toward the gate, so it was that Idhren, standing apart from the rest, who saw Thengel first and gave him one of her characteristic knowing smiles. He nodded toward her and Ecthelion before stepping next to his own wife. 

Gildis had chosen for Morwen to wear a white gown that rested low on her shoulders, trimmed with gold. Abandoning knots and braids for one day, her dark hair spilled down her back in waves. A pale gold circlet rested on her brow, styled similar to the one he now wore for the occasion. Wedding gifts from Rohan. 

Thengel’s fingers brushed Morwen’s bare arm where the sleeves split and she turned to him with a smile, looking tall and fair and grey-eyed. And his. Thengel felt a familiar tug in his belly and began to mentally calculate the time it would take to honorably discharge their duties as host and hostess and then sneak off on their own. 

Morwen must have recognized the look in his eyes, for her own began to dance in a teasing way. “There you are.” 

Thengel glanced between his wife and her cousins. After a brief pause, he shook hands with Adrahil. They had not properly spoken since the regrettable dispute held outside of a certain stable and in the hearing of a certain servant. Although all the Dol Amroth clan had been present at their wedding in February, the flurry of activity and the multitude of guests had not allowed either of the princes to patch things up. 

“My cousins were just telling me how they’ve born their banishment to Dol Amroth over the last half year.” She tapped her lips with her fingers to partially obscure an otherwise irrepressible grin. 

Thengel fixed his expression into something appropriately curious. 

“And how have you born it?” he asked. 

Adrahil scowled half-heartedly. “I suppose we survived.” 

Aranel embraced her husband’s arm with a laugh. She looked sun-kissed and healthier than Thengel could ever remember. “We’ve had a wonderful time with Adrahil’s family. He’s just sore that Turgon’s plans succeeded at his expense.” 

Adrahil looked askance at his wife. “My dear, I am never sore.” 

Aranel winked at Morwen, her co-conspirator. 

“Well, we’re both glad to have you this year for Lossemeren. Aren’t we, Thengel?” 

As Turgon’s plans had worked in his favor, though he didn’t exactly think his foster father deserved to claim the achievement, he agreed that he did feel glad to meet his new cousins again. It might take a little time for things to thaw between Prince Adrahil and himself, but he felt confident that they would. 

After a nod of acknowledgement to his new cousins, he led Morwen a little away from the crowd, choosing a cherry tree to shelter under. 

“So, did you win this morning or did Gildis?” he asked. 

Morwen frowned. “Gildis. Tables are beneath me now, so I’m told. I’ve been entertaining our guests, instead. Thengel,” she bit her lip, “Gildis thinks I must behave a certain way as a princess and future queen. But her way of thinking and mine do not coincide. Which of us is right, do you think?” 

“You must decide that for yourself. I’m not fool enough to try to tell you what to do.” 

“Yes, I noticed you slithered out.” She glanced curiously into his face. “Where have you been all morning?” 

Thengel shrugged. “Out and about.” 

Morwen watched him with open suspicion. “All right. Be vague. No doubt I’ll find out soon enough.”

He bowed his head. “No doubt.” 

Morwen touched the ends of his hair that swept forward over his shoulder. A displaced petal drifted to the ground. The gentle way her fingers combed his hair sent an interesting sensation from his scalp down the back of his neck and on to rest of his body. 

“Your hair is much longer,” she mused. “I didn’t notice how much till I saw Ecthelion again. There’s no hiding it under your helmet now.” She smirked. “Like Teitherion’s painting.” 

Thengel pursed his lips. “Like an uncouth northern horseherd,” he answered dryly. “Word reached me that my sense of taste was under question by high authorities on the matter.” 

“Mm,” she hummed primly. “Your mother had words for you, did she?” 

Thengel rolled his eyes. “Hello, son. I mistook you for a Gondorian page boy.”

Morwen bit her cheek to avoid laughing, but failed. “I’m certain your mother said she missed you first,” she quipped. “I may not have understood her words, but I understood her tone perfectly.” 

“Perhaps.” He didn’t say anything more, but kissed her hand. It better expressed what he felt about Morwen’s wedding gift to himself. 

Morwen had accepted Oswin’s suggestion of a Rohirric handfasting rather than the exchange of rings traditional for the high houses of Gondor. She had also allowed him to set the date six months earlier than a traditional Gondorian engagement. And to name the place: Minas Tirith rather than Lossarnach. 

If the wedding took place in Gondor, which it must given the groom’s status as an exile, the handfasting would at least send the message home that the bride intended to consider herself as one of the Rohirrim in manner. But Morwen had managed to leverage even that in an affair Thengel would always think of as the conspiracy of queens. Oswin could have his way in certain matters, but he had to concede a few victories too. 

Despite strong recommendations against such an undertaking, she had demanded that Thengel’s mother be present at their wedding. Moreover, Queen Wynlaf had conducted the handfasting herself, arriving in Minas Tirith with a familial storm raging behind her. Despite Fengel’s blustering and paranoia, Oswin had managed to bring Thengel’s mother and his sisters. Thengel had never seen his uncle so cowed. 

The enormity of the request and the shock of its accomplishment still made Thengel’s head swim when he thought of it. And he knew Fengel King would not soon forgive, let alone forget what he felt was an act of open rebellion. Oswin had suggested, though he avoided being explicit in front of his nephew, that Fengel had choice words for the sort of woman he suspected his new daughter-in-law to be. 

For the best, Thengel thought. Anything his father had to say about Morwen would more than likely give him justification for breaking his exile, after all, and justifying all of Fengel’s old fears. 

Thengel reached out and plucked a white blossom that had landed in Morwen’s hair, reminding him of when he had first seen her a year ago. 

Morwen said, “Is there something you brought me here to tell me?” 

“No,” he answered. “Well, yes. Sort of.” 

Gently, he scooped his hand behind her head and she lifted her face to meet him. Her lips yielded to his and soon she was leaning against him for support. 

Gildis coughed somewhere behind them and reluctantly they parted. 

“It is time. You’re both wanted at the dais.”   
…

Thengel met a flushed but tidy Guthere at the foot of the dais. His ruddy hair had grown over the scarred tissue of his scalp but had been combed back in a rakish manner so that a little of the scar could be seen. He had a new suit of clothes for his wedding day and he more than once gave an unsubtle tug to the collar while avoiding the gaze of all the Lossemeren guests in front of him. When he shifted on his heels, his boots squeaked, startling him. No doubt he ardently wished he had also thrown Hareth over a horse’s back and rode off with her rather than face all these people. 

Thengel had to glance down at his own boots to hide his laughter. Not that he hadn’t been subjected to a fit of nerves on his own wedding day, but he hadn’t expected this red giant of a man to be as jumpy as a spring hare. He glanced at Morwen to see if she had also noticed Guthere’s fidgeting from where she stood on the groom’s other side where she would perform Hareth’s bridal blessing. Wisely, she chose to avoid her husband’s eyes to maintain her own composure. 

Then suddenly a fiddle began to play down by the gate where the bride would enter. They straightened into a triptych of anticipation. Guthere turned white as a sheet. Morwen reached out an squeezed his arm. 

The fiddler led the procession. Ioneth followed immediately with a gaggle of Nanneth’s grandchildren, the bridesmaid and the flower girls. Petals scattered over the grass with aggressive enthusiasm. They ran out halfway to the dais. 

And then came Hareth, pink of cheek and frizzy of hair, stumping toward the dais in a dress that could have maintained all the sails of Prince Angelimir’s flagship. She gripped a bouquet of wildflowers with the same determination that she used with a rolling pin. This was a bride who would be married. 

The fiddler stepped up to the groom and sawed out the end of his tune with so much enthusiasm that Thengel half feared the groom would bolt. But the song ended with Hareth hot on its heels so that Thengel could just hear Guthere gulp air as Hareth thrust the half broken bouquet at Ioneth. The girl took them and then herded the little girls off to the side with their empty baskets. Thengel almost lost his composure again when he noticed, as Hareth held out her chubby hands for her groom to take, that they were still covered in flour dust. 

When the two had joined hands, Beldir pushed a reluctant Gundor forward who fiddled nervously with his pockets. He dropped the rings three times before they ever made it onto anyone’s fingers. They fell and rolled every which way in the grass, which meant Thengel lost a private bet to Beldir, who knew the boy would bungle his one wedding duty. 

The rings, once found, were exchanged and the blessings delivered and the principle parties kissed. Then the bride and the groom opened the feast and were made to endure several speeches and toasts so that both of them glowed scarlet in the face. 

Everyone forgot the wedding couple once the food appeared. Unlike the previous year, the crowd was so plentiful and lively that Thengel couldn’t find a seat, let alone standing room near his wife. So he drifted, eating and drinking whatever anyone might spare him, while making conversation. 

When the victuals were all accounted for and stomachs patted, the hired players cracked open their instrument cases. Music flowed in the orchard. Thurstan, Gladhon, and even Cenhelm wrangled Hareth into a dance before her new husband had so much as a chance to tap his toe alongside hers. 

Morwen materialized and took the opportunity to steal a reel with Guthere, who blushed deeply until he could hand his future queen off to the one he felt to be her rightful partner. 

Thengel had his turn with Morwen, but with an unmasked smirk, she traded partners halfway through the reel with Hareth. What a difference, he thought, from last year when Morwen had been unsure and mortified. Thengel could hear his wife laughing at both his and Hareth’s expressions of shock as she spun away from him in Cenhelm’s arms. 

Then it was Hareth’s turn to blush and fuss until the reel ended and she could return the prince to his rightful partner. Wherever she was. Thengel had meant to have a few words with his wife after her teasing, but she wasn’t to be found.   
…

 

Thengel found his friends instead. Idhren had ensconced herself in a sheltered area away from the dancing with Ferneth. They sat on a blanket together, doting on one another’s children, the rotund Forlong and Idhren’s delicate newborn twin daughters. Two nursemaids hovered in the background, ready to take over whenever Idhren raised a finger. 

“What a handsome little boy. So charming,” he heard Idhren say. 

“Thank you,” Ferneth replied. 

Idhren held up the eldest of the twins so that Forlong could gape and blow bubbles at her. “Say hello to the Lord of Lossarnach, darling,” she cooed as she gently waved the infant’s hand. 

When Thengel approached, Ferneth greeted him, then excused herself to change her son’s soiled nappy. He sat down on the edge of the blanket and reached for one of the babies. 

“Alliances are formed so young nowadays,” he teased. 

Idhren smirked. “Alliances are like sharks, my dear. If they stop swimming they die.” 

He held one baby and she held another. She shooed the nurses away so she could talk to him with a modicum of privacy. 

“I’m sorry Denethor couldn’t come,” he said. 

“Oh, nonsense. He’s spending all his time with his grandfather in that drafty tower. He’s probably rejoicing that he doesn’t have to spar with his father for a whole week.” 

They both looked in the direction of the Captain of Gondor. He and Prince Adrahil were engaged in conversation over something Ecthelion was carving into the dirt with a stick. A map of the coast, in all probability, Thengel thought. 

“Has he gotten over the shock yet?” Thengel asked. 

Idhren tilted her head in that way of hers. “Which shock? That I gave him twins at my age or that you actually managed to marry?” 

Thengel grinned in answer. “I’m a little surprised by the twins, myself.” 

“Oh, as for that, it winds down to luck.” Then she said, “I’ve long imagined our children playing together, did you know that?” 

The baby stirred in his arms and he rocked her to keep her from crying. “There will be some time before that happens.”

Idhren gave him an odd look. “Darling, are you so sure?” 

He shrugged. “Oswin’s in a rush, I know. I keep burning his letters before Morwen can see them. The pressure would only upset her. We want to take our time.”

“Time?” Idhren coughed to smother a laugh, then burst into peals when she saw his bruised expression. Both babies startled, but fell back asleep. 

Thengel looked sulky. “Why not? Look at how many years there are between Denethor and the twins.” 

Idhren looked down her nose at him. “Yes, but I don’t think our method would appeal to a newlywed. What precautions have you taken?”

Precautions? He blinked. Her tone ruffled his feelings. “Morwen’s focusing on her collaboration with the Houses right now and restoring the orchard that Halmir damaged,” he reasoned. “She’s not ready.” 

“Oh, my friend. Poor you. Your life never does follow expectation.” Idhren tossed her head, looking superior. “That’s up to nature to decide, you’ll find. Or fortitude, though I doubt you have any of the latter from what I’ve witnessed so far.” He waited for her to pronounce doom. “I have a feeling, Thengel, that she’s run out of time.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Don’t be obtuse.” 

“You can’t know.” 

Idhren looked away. “I can feel it in my bones and I am never wrong.”

He followed Idhren's line of sight to see that Morwen had been cornered by Teitherion, who appeared to be pressing her to accept one of his nanny goats and its kids. She didn’t look any different to his eyes and he wasn’t about to accept some feminine skeletal agitation as proof. Morwen might believe that Idhren could speak a thing into existence, but he had never known her to possess such magic. 

Thengel glanced back at Idhren. She watched him with a sardonic twist to her lips and the light of amusement in her eyes. 

“Hmph.”   
…

 

Half the afternoon had burned away before Thengel found Morwen again. His morning’s work revealed itself after his conversation with Idhren. Three horses, two for riding and one for gear, appeared at the orchard gate. Just short of actually throwing her over the saddle, Guthere whisked his bride away from the celebration to begin their honeymoon. Thengel’s gift to the couple. 

Afterward, Morwen moved between the trees like a shadow, lighting the lamps in solitude. Entrenched in her own thoughts, she never heard him approach. He caught her by the elbow in passing. She gasped. 

“Thengel! You startled me.” 

He grinned. “What about another dance?” 

She glanced at her feet as if they pained her. “I don’t know.” 

Upon closer inspection, he had to agree with her. His thumb brushed over her cheek has he tilted her face upward for closer observation. “You look pale. Have you had anything to eat?” Between their guests, they hadn’t ever seemed to get a chance to sit at the table together. Could he recall seeing her off her feet even once the whole day?

Morwen tried to mask a grimace. “I’m not hungry,” she said tiredly. 

“Something to drink, then.” 

“All right.” 

He found a forgotten bottle of wine and brought it back to her with a couple of glasses so she wouldn’t be pressed into more conversations when he knew she needed a rest. After pouring out a glass for her, he took the tapers and finished lighting the last row of lamps. When he returned, she had finished her drink and seemed to be rallying. 

“Are you sure you’re well?” 

Morwen shrugged. “The drink’s helping, thank you. Lossemeren is a lot of work. I’ve been talking and talking and that wears me out more than carrying bushels of apples all day.” 

“Haven’t you taken a rest at all?” he asked, feeling irritated with everyone all of a sudden for taking advantage of her hospitality. “Didn’t anyone let you sit down and eat?” 

Morwen tucked her hair behind her ears. “Don’t blame them. I don’t have an appetite for anything lately and there’s so much to do. Don’t look at me that way, Thengel. I’m resting now. Come, let’s sit down somewhere out of the way.”

Thengel chose a shaded plot against the wall where no one could be seen or heard. He draped his outer shirt on the ground for her to sit on so the grass and dirt wouldn’t spoil her dress. When he sat down beside her, she leaned against his side. Instinctively, his arm wrapped around her waist. 

“So, Guthere and Hareth are married and on their way to make mischief in Pelargir. I’m glad Oswin took my point of view on the matter,” she congratulated herself. 

Thengel snorted silently. Morwen had leveraged their betrothal for Guthere’s benefit as well. Whatever she wanted, Oswin complied so long as she promised to turn up for their handfasting. Even to the last second, Oswin half expected her to bolt. Thengel gave her credit for knowing when to seize an opportunity. Though he didn’t always agree with her choices. 

“I’ve been thinking, Morwen,” he told her. “When we have the chance, we should take a proper honeymoon too. Minas Tirith doesn’t count.” 

He felt her smiling against his undershirt. “I agree. Where would you like to go?” 

“We might see Dol Amroth.” 

Morwen nodded. “Adrahil has been talking of it. Angelimir will host us whenever we wish.” 

Thengel frowned. That meant formal functions when he simply wished to spend time with his wife. “Or maybe an out of the way place near Tarnost?” 

“A honeymoon with the bears,” she said gamely. “Salmon fishing in the Gilrain with our bare hands. Oh, we could bay at the full moon with the wolves. I can’t wait.” 

Thengel laughed. “Or what about a cruise off the coast? We’ll start from Pelargir. I’ll show you were I fought pirates.” 

Morwen grimaced and he looked down at her. “Maybe no ships. The thought makes me feel a little queasy. All those…waves.” 

She did seem a little green. He kissed the top of her head and pulled her closer. Before long, she began to drowse. Thengel studied the blossoms falling overhead as a breeze stirred the trees. Some of the branches, he noticed, already had the beginnings of early cherries. How early was too early? 

“Maybe it will have to be an anniversary trip some year,” he mused.

“Hm.” 

“Morwen,” he ventured, with a voice that sounded a little tinny to his own ears, “Idhren said a funny thing to me earlier.” 

“I’m sure she did, my own one,” Morwen laughed softly. “Idhren always says very funny things. Isn’t that how we got here in the first place?”

Well, Thengel liked to reserve a little credit for themselves. After all, they had done the falling in love. That was half the battle, especially for a hotspur and a steelsheen.


	45. Epilogue

Five years later…

The messenger rode full tilt through the grasslands, his horse lathered and snorting. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion, he raced westward with the mountains, sweat pouring down his face, soaking his clothes and hair. He changed mounts at Aldburg along the West Road to lend him speed before the final push toward the great hill of the Golden Hall. 

He would not rest until he carried his message from Gondor to Riddermark. There were precious few settlements between Firienwood and Edoras, but he had seen each one — splashing through muddy town squares, climbing stockades, crying from the rain barrels beside their wattled houses — now the rays of sunlight licked the Eastfold, gliding before the rider on golden wings. 

The messenger leaned into the last leg of his journey. He kicked the gelding’s sides and loosed his grip on the reins, giving the horse its head. The hollow tattoo of hooves on the clay kept his heart going. He would not fall out of the saddle from exhaustion or for any other reason. He would deliver his message.

An ancient stone pile under a gold-thatched roof rose above the humble huts winding up the hill-fort. Meduseld, at last. He halloo’d and hollered until one-by-one faces appeared at all the windows, on thresholds, on the stone stair. Sleepy-eyed children stumbled out of doorways with spoons dripping oatmeal to meet the rider. 

The door wardens ushered the rider into the hall, past the banked fire waiting to be rebuilt, past the empty dais, down a little-used corridor to a corner room. 

The rider entered, head bowed with reverence. An old man leaned heavily against the window facing east. He had seen the rider during his vigil over a far-flung family. 

The rider shifted nervously in his boots. “My lord?” 

“What news?” asked the old man in a hoarse voice. 

“The princess has delivered a son,” the rider announced between gasps. “All is well.” 

The old man sank deeply into his chair beside the window. “The child’s name?” 

“Rochírion,” the rider answered. “Eh, Théoden Rochírion.”

The people’s lord. A promise. 

“Go. Tell the King.” 

When the messenger left him, the old man wept into his beard. 

“Westu Thengelson hal,” Oswin murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, I have a soft spot for Oswin. He had to find out before the king. ;) Thank you for reading! It’s been three years, almost to the day, that I started scribbling this story, so thank you all for sticking with it. 
> 
> Thengel and Morwen had five children in total, of which Theoden was the second born and only son. The first three of the children were born in Gondor, with the final two born after Thengel was recalled to Rohan ten years after their marriage. The only daughter who received a name from Tolkien was the youngest, Theodwyn, mother of Eomer and Eowyn. 
> 
> Rochírion: (sind) son of the horse lord


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